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Che  Me  forest  Student 

A  LITERARY  MAGAZINE 


Published  by  the 

Euzelian  and  Pbilomatbesian  Societies 

OF  WAKE  FOREST  COLLEGE, 
NORTH    CAROLINA. 

PURE  IN  TONE  and  commendable  in  aim,  it  appeals  for  support  to 
the  Alumni  of  Wake  Forest,  to  the  friends  of  the  College,  and  to 
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GIEHSCfl'S  CAFE  wi.eioh,ii.& 

Cuisine  and  Service  Private  Dining  and 

Unexcelled.  Banquet  Rooms. 

PRICES  MODERATE. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


In  Memoriam  John  Charles  McNeill James  Larkin  Pearson.  247 

The  Student  Life  of  John  Charles  McNeill.  .  .Dr.  Chas.  E.  Taylor.  248 

McNeill,  the  Poet Prof.  B.  F.  Sledd.  252 

In  Memoriam  J.  C.  M H.  F.  Page.  256 

John  Charles  McNeill Josiah  William  Bailey.  257 

North  Carolina  Mourns  the  Death  of  a  Poet Edward  L.  Conn.  264 

John  Charles  McNeill Dr.  Archibald  Henderson.  266 

John  Charles  McNeill J.  P.  Caldwell.  279 

Unutterable    (Poem) H.  F.  Page.  282 

An  Inarticulate  Obituary R.  L.  Gray.  283 

Some  Reminiscences   H.  F.  Page.  288 

Sunburnt  Boys J.C.  M.  291 

The  Sunburnt  Boy By  One  of  the  Sunburnt  Boys.  293 

John  Charles  McNeill  as  the  College  Journalist 297 

Editor's  Portfolio Lee  M.   White.  302 

Exchange  Department H.  J.  Massey.  308 

Clippings    311 

Alumni  Department C.  S.  Barnette.  312 

In  and  About  College H.  E.  Peele.  317 


WAKE  FOREST  STUDENT 

Vol.  XXVII  December,  1907  No.  4 


IN  MEMORIAM  TO  JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


By  James  Labkin  Peaeson. 


THE  RIVALS. 

Pose-crowned,  with  lifted  veil  and  soft  glad  eyes, 
She  met  him  at  the  portals  when  he  came ; 

For  she  was  Life  and  he,  full  lover-wise, 

Did  kiss  her  hand  and  fervent  love  proclaim. 

And  they  were  boon  companions,  Life  and  he, 
And  fitly  joined  in  every  mood  and  thought; 

They  plighted  love  beneath  the  forest  tree, 
In  Nature's  schoool  together  they  were  taught. 

His  poet-heart  was  wakened  into  song; 

Nor  ever  sang  the  nightingale  so  well ; 
Great  thoughts  that  to  Eternity  belong 

From  his  ripe  lips  in  perfect  numbers  fell. 

But  gaunt-eyed  Death  sat  envious  and  alone, 
Perceiving  how  the  happy  pair  were  blest; 

And  she  into  a  jealous  rage  was  thrown, — 

With  fleshless  palm  she  smote  her  hollow  breast. 

And  in  that  mood  Death  made  an  awful  vow 
To  lie  in  wait  where  Life  and  Poet  strolled, 

That  she  might  plant  her  kiss  upon  his  brow, 
Touch  his  warm,  singing  heart  and  leave  it  cold. 

And  even  so  befell  the  tragic  deed : 

From  Death's  assault  there  was  no  arm  to  save; 
And  many  hearts  shall  long  in  silence  bleed, 

While  Life  stands  weeping  by  her  Poet's  grave. 


248  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

THE  STUDENT  LIFE  OF  JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


By  Dr.  Chas.  E.  Taylor. 


I  have  no  definite  recollection  of  my  first  meeting,  in 
the  fall  of  1894,  with  Mr.  McNeill.  It  was  probably  on 
the  day  of  his  matriculation  as  a  freshman, — one  of  those 
days  when  one  receives  only  a  blurred  impression  of 
many  unfamiliar  faces.  The  ability  to  differentiate 
comes  later.  In  the  case  of  Mr.  McNeill  this  could  not 
have  been  very  lonsr  delaved.  From  the  first  there  was 
something  exceptional  about  him  which  gave  him  a  place 
apart. 

The  tall,  slender  youth  with  raven  locks  began  on  the 
threshold  of  his  student  life  to  show  that  he  was  of  an 
unusual  type,  both  as  a  student  and  as  a  man. 

The  record  shows  that  during  his  first  session  at  Wake 
Forest  he  made  in  Latin,  Mathematics,  and  English  the 
grades,  respectively,  of  98,  99,  and  98.  These  results  in- 
dicated that  he  was  a  first  rate  student  and  placed  him, 
so  to  speak,  upon  the  pedestal  where  stand  the  men  who 
are  leaders  of  their  classes. 

In  order  to  have  achieved  these  high  averages  in  daily 
recitations  and  on  examinations  the  young  man  must 
have  been,  and,  indeed,  he  was,  an  assiduous  worker. 
But  I  do  not  think  that  he  knew  the  drudgery,  the  wear- 
ing grind  of  study.  His  mind  was  quick  to  discern  and 
receive;  his  memory  was  tenacious  in  retaining. 

Because  he  mastered  rapidly  and  with  comparative 
ease  his  allotted  tasks,  the  casual  observer  would  have 
judged  of  the  excellence  of  his  work  by  the  results  rather 
than  by  the  process  of  acquisition.  For  he  entered  with 
zest  into  all  the  varied  interests  and  activities  of  student 
life.     He  was  ready  to  be  welcomed  into  the  social  circles 


John  Charles  McNeill  249 

of  the  little  college  town.  With  insatiable  appetite  he 
availed  himself  of  the  treasures  of  Library  and  Reading- 
room.  It  may  be  doubted  whether,  during  the  five  years 
of  his  sojourn  at  Wake  Forest,  any  other  student  read 
more  widely  or  to  better  purpose  than  he.  Though  not 
an  athlete  himself,  he  took  a  genuine  interest  in  the  men 
of  muscle  and  nerve  among  his  friends  and  rejoiced  with 
enthusiasm  in  every  victory  of  "our  men." 

It  not  infrequently  happens  that  young  students  be- 
come weary  in  well  doing  and  that  the  hopes  inspired  by 
the  freshman  prove  delusive  before  he  becomes  a  senior. 

So  far  was  this  from  being  the  case  with  Mr.  McNeill 
that  he  not  only  kept  up  the  pace  which  he  had  set  for 
himself,  but  actually  improved  upon  it.  The  Rolls  of  the 
college  show  that  during  his  senior  year  he  made  in  Phy- 
sics the  grade  of  100;  in  Chemistry,  99 ;  in  Moral  Philoso- 
phy, 98 ;  in  English,  100 ;  and  in  Biology,  99. 

After  taking  his  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  Mr.  Mc- 
Neill returned  to  Wake  Forest  to  do  the  work  for  the 
Master's  degree  and,  incidentally,  to  render  assistance  as 
Instructor  in  English. 

It  was  during  this  last  session  (1898-9)  that  I  was 
brought  into  closer  contact  and  more  intimate  personal 
relations  with  him  than  had  been  possible  before.  He 
was  one  of  the  four  men  who  that  year  pursued  with  me 
the  study  of  Philosophy  in  the  Senior  Class  of  the  course. 
In  this  all  the  great  problems  of  metaphysics  and,  inci- 
dentally, many  of  the  doctrines  of  the  Christian  and 
other  religions  were  discussed. 

Again  and  again,  after  the  bell  had  rung  and  the  others 
had  left,  Mr.  McNeill  would  remain,  propounding  ques- 
tions, some  of  which  no  man  could  answer,  or  advancing 
theories  which,  even  when  they  were  not  plausible,  at 
least  gave  evidence  of  an  eager  love  of  truth  and  an  alert 


250  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

understanding.  And  though  he  was  often  daring  in 
speculation,  he  was  never  flippant  nor  casuistic,  but  was 
at  all  times  earnest  and  reverent. 

Every  young  man  who  reads  widely  and  thinks  for 
himself  almost  inevitably  passes,  sooner  or  later,  through 
a  period  of  unrest.  Hitherto  he  has  accepted  opinions 
and  beliefs  on  the  authority,  in  great  part,  of  others. 
Now  he  begins  to  question  all  things.  It  is,  perhaps, 
well  that  this  should  be  the  case.  The  struggle  through 
a  period  of  doubt  may  be  painful,  but  it  is  sure,  when  un- 
biased by  prejudice  or  passion  and  poisoned  by  no  ma- 
lign external  influences,  to  settle  and  open  sounder  foun- 
dations and  impart  more  decided  convictions. 

I  believe  that  while  he  was  at  the  college  Mr.  McNeill 
passed  through  such  a  crisis  in  his  intellectual  and  spirit- 
ual life,  and  that  he  emerged  from  it  still  anchored  to  all 
that  was  fundamental  and  essential  in  the  beliefs  of  his 
earlier  youth. 

Mr.  McNeill  was  a  popular  man  in  college,  and  those 
who  knew  him  best  liked  him  most.  For  he  was  chari- 
table in  his  judgments,  courteous  in  his  bearing,  and 
kind  in'his  actions.  This  does  not  imply  that  he  showed 
a  weak  complaisance.  His  nature  was  rich  in  essential 
manliness  and  I  well  remember  occasions  when  his 
strong  sense  of  justice  put  him  in  opposition  to  prevail- 
ing public  opinion.  Indeed,  one  of  the  most  marked 
characteristics  of  the  man  was  his  sturdy  Scotch  inde- 
pendence and  his  indifference  to  adverse  opinion  or  criti- 
cism. To  this  spirit,  perhaps,  is  due  the  fact  that  he  was 
less  careful  than  many  young  men  as  to  dress  and  per- 
sonal appearance.  This  was  not  that  he  took  pride  in 
being  peculiar,  but  simply  that  he  considered  such  mat- 
ters as  trivial  and  to  be  brushed  aside  as  not  meriting 
great  attention. 


John  Charles  McNeill  251 

To  follow  the  career  of  Mr.  McNeill  as  lawyer,  pro- 
fessor and  journalist  would  be  to  go  beyond  the  scope  of 
this  article.  All  who  knew  him  well  at  Wake  Forest 
and  had  had  opportunities  for  estimating  his  abilities  be- 
lieved that  a  successful  and  brilliant  future  lay  before 
him.  It  was  after  only  a  brief  experience  at  the  bar 
that  he  became  convinced  that  the  profession  was  not 
congenial  to  his  tastes  or  suited  to  his  talents.  Then  for 
a  year  he  filled  a  professor's  chair  in  a  Southern  univer- 
sity before  at  last  gravitating  naturally  into  the  work 
for  which  he  was  best  fitted. 

A  wise  Roman  poet  once  wrote  that  what  the  gods 
want  a  man  to  do  they  make  him  want  to  do.  This  is 
only  saying  that  in  deciding  upon  one's  lifework  he  is 
apt  to  recognize  that  his  desires  harmonize  with  his 
aptitudes.  And  Mr.  McNeill's  friends  were  happy  in 
their  belief  that,  in  entering  the  field  of  journalism  and 
in  cultivating  literature,  he  had  found  his  best  environ- 
ment and  true  vocation.  And  the  work  already  done  by 
him  while  still  a  young  man  warrants  their  belief  now 
that,  had  his  life  been  spared,  his  pen  would  have  won 
for  him  world-wide  renown. 


252  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

McNeill  the  poet 


By  Professor  B.  F.  Sledd. 


It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1895,  if  I  remember  aright, 
that  John  Charles  McNeill  matriculated  in  my  Fresh- 
man-English class.  I  recall  how  I  opened  my  eyes  in 
wonder  over  his  first  composition.  There  was  that  inde- 
scribable something  which  we  call  style — real,  genuine, 
style;  the  writing  of  one  who  handles  his  pen  as  to  the 
manner  born.  Now,  style  in  a  Freshman's  composition 
is  almost  as  rare  as  speech  among  the  birds;  so  I  thought 
it  well  to  ask  Mr.  McNeill  whence  he  had  derived  his  in- 
spiration. But  when  the  tall,  dark-haired,  dark-eyed 
boy  came  up  to  my  desk,  the  question  was  never  asked 
him.  His  very  presence  had  spoken  for  him;  the  man 
and  the  style  were  one.  Men  of  genius  have  ever  pos- 
sessed striking  personalities,  and  Mr.  McNeill  certainly 
bore  outwardly  the  marks  of  a  genius.  An  assistant 
was  needed  at  the  time  in  the  English  department,  and, 
Freshman  though  he  was,  McNeill  was  at  once  chosen 
for  the  place.  And  this  was  the  beginning  of  a  friend- 
ship that  will  ever  be  among  the  treasured  memories  of 
my  life.  Many  a  night  the  piles  of  compositions  were 
forgotten  as  we  talked  the  hours  away  over  the  poets. 
Even  then  McNeill  was  writing  verses,  some  of  which 
may  be  found  in  the  numbers  of  The  Wake  Forest 
Student.  The  least  mature  of  them  will  be  found  to 
possess  a  certain  nameless  charm  which  distinguishes 
them  from  the  mere  verse  of  college  magazines. 

Last  night  I  went  over  McNeill's  little  volume  once 
more — for  the  third  time.  On  finishing  it,  I  felt  that  the 
poet  had  rightly  named  it  "Songs."     Like  his  own  favor- 


John  Charles  McNeill  253 

ite  poet,  Burns,  McNeill  was  the  born  singer.  Nowhere 
did  he  attempt  the  lofty  theme  or  the  lofty  utterance. 
His  poems  are  always  brief  swallow-flights  of  song  that 
dip  their  wings  in  the  mingled  shadow  and  sunshine  of 
every-day  life  and  skim  away.  The  Scotch  poets,  from 
the  old  balladists  down  to  Stevenson,  have  ever  been  a 
race  of  singers,  and  McNeill  was  Scotch  to  his  finger 
tips. 

On  opening  the  little  volume,  one  is  at  once  struck 
with  the  absolute  flawlessness  of  the  workmanship.  The 
severest  critic  would  search  in  vain  for  ill-digested 
thoughts,  extravagant  figures,  far-fetched  conceits,  halt- 
ing metres,  and  bad  ryhmes.  Even  the  least  successful 
of  the  verses  contain  what  Matthew  Arnold  calls  the 
poet's  fluidity  of  utterance.  Let  me  quote  a  single  short 
poem : 

SUNDOWN. 

"Hills  wrapped  in  gray,  standing  along  the  west; 
Clouds,  dimly  lighted,  gathering  slowly; 
The  star  of  peace  at  watch  above  the  crest — 
Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy! 

We  know,  O  Lord,  so  little  what  is  best; 

Wingless,  we  move  so  lowly; 
But  in  Thy  calm  all-knowledge  let  us  rest — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy!" 

Perhaps  we  rather  regret  the  absence  of  those  very  ex- 
travagances and  youthful  imperfections  that  constitute 
the  chief  charm  of  a  poet's  first  volume.  If  we  take  the 
early  works  of  the  great  masters  of  song, — of  Keats,  of 
Shelley,  of  Tennyson, — we  stand  bewildered  as  in  a  jun- 
gle, but  the  very  jungle  proclaims  the  fertility  of  the  soil. 
I  have  always  feared  that  McNeill  attained  his  first  suc- 
cess too  easily,  too  readily;  that  he  found  his  way  too 
quickly  into  the  magazines  and  newspapers.     If  there  is 


254  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

anything  that  can  put  the  leaden  cape  on  the  poet's 
fancy,  it  is  to  be  compelled  to  write  to  the  dead,  uniform 
level  of  the  American  magazines. 

Another  excellence  of  McNeill's  poetry — and  it  is  his 
chief  claim  to  greatness — is  its  haunting  quality.  There 
are  phrases,  lines,  and  measures  that  stick  in  the  mem- 
ory, recurring  to  us  over  and  over  again.  Take  the  fol- 
lowing : 

DAWN. 

"The  hills  again  reach  skyward  with  a  smile. 
Again,  with  waking  life  along  its  way, 
The  landscape  marches  westward  mile  on  mile, 
And  Time  throbs  white  into  another  day. 

Though  eager  life  must  wait  on  livelihood, 
And  all  our  hopes  be  tethered  to  the  mart, 

Lacking  the  eagle's  wild,  high  freedom,  would 
That  our's  might  be  this  day  the  eagle's  heart." 

The  lines  illustrate,  too,  another  quality  of  Mr.  Mc- 
Neill's poetry:  Like  all  Scotchmen  he  never  fails  to 
preach  a  little,  wherever  possible, — quickly,  unobtru- 
sivety,  but  a  sermon  nevertheless.  And  our  hearts  are 
always  the  better  for  the  preaching. 

And,  most  of  all,  in  these  sweet  songs  I  catch  the  beat- 
ing of  a  strong,  manly  heart ;  I  hear  the  voice  of  one  who 
loves  home  and  mother  and  all  the  good  old  things  of 
youth.  Let  me  quote  McNeill's  one  really  successful 
sonnet : 

HOME    SONG. 

"The  little  loves  and  sorrows  are  my  song: 
The  leafy  lanes  and  birthsteads  of  my  sires, 
Where  memory  broods  by  winter's  evening  fires 

O'er  oft-told  joys  and  ghosts  of  ancient  wrongs; 

The  little  cares  and  carols  that  belong 

To  home-hearts,  and  old  rustic  lutes  and  lyres, 
And  spreading  acres,  where  calm-eyed  desires 

Wake  with  the  dawn,  unfevered,  fair,  and  strong. 


John  Charles  McNeill  255 

If  words  of  mine  might  lull  the  bairn  to  sleep, 
And  tell  the  meaning  in  a  mother's  eyes; 

Might  counsel  love,  and  teach  their  eyes  to  weep 

Who,  o'er  their  dead,  question  unanswering  skies, — 

More  worth  than  legions  in  the  dust  of  strife, 

Time,  looking  back  at  last,  should  count  my  life." 

Here,  as  is  nearly  always  true,  the  poet  is  his  own  best 
judge  and  critic. 

Did  time  permit,  I  might  speak  of  Mr.  McNeill's  keen- 
ness and  sureness  of  eye  and  ear.  Never  a  sight  or  a 
sound  of  the  woods  and  the  fields  escapes  him,  and  his 
nature-poetry  has  the  happy  inspiration  of  the  born 
nature-lover. 

*  *  *  "an  old  gray  stone 
That  humps  its  back  up  through  the  mold." 

"Distant  pastures  send  the  bleat 
Of  hungry  lambs  at  break  of  day." 

Now,  in  conclusion,  I  must  be  pardoned  if  I  refuse  to 
attempt  any  estimate  of  Mr.  McNeill's  genius.  It  is 
enough  that  we  hail  him  poet.  Posterity  will  assign  his 
rank.  In  the  kingdom  of  the  poets,  as  in  the  kingdom  of 
the  just,  there  is  no  first  and  last.  Let  us  remember  that 
McNeill  was  cut  down  in  the  flower  of  his  manhood.  It 
is  not  so  much  what  he  fulfilled  as  what  he  promised. 
Let  us  hope,  too,  and  devoutly  believe  that  John  Charles 
McNeill  is  the  morning  star  to  the  new  day  which  is 
surely  dawning  in  the  Old  North  State. 


256  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

IN  MEMORIAM  J.  C.  M. 


By  H.  F.  Page. 


The  silver  chord  falls  snapped  in  twain, 

The  golden  bowl  lies  broken. 
In  this  sad  hour  of  bitter  pain 

How  shall  our  grief  be  spoken? 

No  more  his  rare-attuned  lyre 
Will  thrill  to  Sapphic  measure; 

No  more  his  chalice  bathed  in  fire 
Will  pour  to  us  its  treasure. 

Ye  fates  that  clip  the  mortal  thread, 
Your  work  is  done  untimely — 

We  gather  here  about  our  dead — 
Would  he  had  died  sublimely ! 

But  at  this  hour  shall  every  blame 
Be  sunk  in  soul-deep  sorrow; 

The  Art  he  loved  shall  shrieve  his  name 
And  keep  his  fame  to-morrow. 

"We  know  so  little  what  is  best, 
Wingless,  we  move  so  lowly," 

In  Thy  all-pity  grant  him  rest, 
O  God,  most  holy,  holy ! 


John  Charles  McNeill  257 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


By  Josiah  William  Bailey. 


Spring  Hill  is  the  name  of  a  community  in  the  heart 
of  the  original  Scotch  settlement  of  North  Carolina,  and 
generations  of  that  substantial  stock  have  come  and 
gone  without  loss  of  the  blood  or  the  spirit  which  is 
everywhere  their  glory. 

In  this  community  John  Charles  McNeill,  the  poet, 
was  born  July  26,  1874,  and  there  he  was  reared. 

Of  the  contribution  of  locality,  of  blood  and  of  moral 
and  intellectual  atmosphere  to  genius  we  can  make  no 
proper  measure.  But  I  regard  it  important  to  the  pur- 
pose of  this  sketch  that  the  reader  first  obtain  a  concep- 
tion of  the  Spring  Hill  region  and  people. 

The  land  lies  low,  and  the  far  horizon  makes  its  mov- 
ing appeal  wherever  the  eye  may  fall.  The  fields  pre- 
sent vistas  of  corn  and  cotton  and  grass,  with  the  woods 
of  cypress  and  pine  and  gum  in  the  back-ground.  The 
houses  are  the  headquarters  of  wide-sweeping  and  well- 
kept  farms,  and  the  vine  and  fig-tree  flourish  near  by. 
Throughout  the  settlement  winds  the  Lumber  River, 
wine-colored,  steady,  deep  and  swift  or  slow  according 
to  the  season ;  a  darksome  stream,  where  the  red-throat, 
the  pickerel  and  the  large-mouth  bass  find  homes  all  to 
their  liking,  save  for  the  fisher-boy  who  overtakes  them 
with  bob  and  bait.  To  spend  a  sunset  hour  beneath  the 
cypress  gloom  hard-by;  to  catch  the  note  of  the  far-cir- 
cling fields  in  the  stilly  hour ;  to  respond  to  the  color  of 
the  land  and  heaven  and  horizon  and  the  sombre  quiet 
all  around — is  to  realize  that  this  is  the  poet's  clime. 

"  The  poet  in  a  poet's  clime  was  born." 


258  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

The  center  of  this  community  is  an  ancient  church, 
school,  and  temperance  hall,  the  three  being  within 
speaking  distance  of  one  another.  Of  the  civilization  of 
this  settlement  I  need  say  no  more :  these  are  their  wit- 
nesses. The  church  was  presided  over  throughout  three 
generations  by  two  really  great  ministers — Daniel  White, 
the  patron-saint — if  the  Scotch  will  tolerate  that  term — 
and  John  Monroe,  the  patriarch,  of  the  people.  It  is  im- 
possible to  measure  the  impress  of  these  men ;  they  minis- 
tered according  to  the  best  traditions  of  their  callings. 
The}'  were  the  wisest,  the  most  eloquent,  and  the  best 
men  their  people  have  ever  known ;  their  chosen  leaders, 
their  spiritual  fathers  and  daily  examples.  Not  only 
did  they  dominate  the  church,  the  school  and  the  lodge; 
their  lives  prevailed  over  ail,  and  do  prevail  to  this  day, 
though  they  have  long  been  gathered  to  their  fathers. 

The  temperance  lodge  was  no  insignificant  member  of 
this  trinity  of  social,  intellectual,  moral  and  spiritual 
springs.  Here  the  young  people  were  accumtomed  to 
assemble  to  exercise  their  gifts  in  entertainments  and 
debates.  That  there  was  sufficient  interest  to  sustain 
the  institution  speaks  abundantly  of  the  moral  fibre  of 
the  community,  and  I  could  produce  an  array  of  facts 
that  would  convince  every  other  community  in  North 
Carolina  that  such  an  institution  is  worthy  of  all  that 
it  may  require.  I  could  name  leaders  now  serving  North 
Carolina  who  received  here  their  strongest  impressions 
and  found  play  for  their  best  gifts.  So  much  for  the 
local  it}'. 

John  Charles  McNeill  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  Daniel 
White  and  John  Monroe;  his  grandfathers,  John  Mc- 
Neill and  Charles  Livingston,  emigrated  from  Argyle- 
shire,  Scotland,  about  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century.     His  grand  mothers  were  born  in  America.  His 


John  Charles  McNeill  259 

father,  Duncan  McNeill,  now  enjoying  a  hale  old  age, 
and  his  mother,  Euphemia  Livingston,  who  has  lived  to 
read  the  poet's  exquisite  lines  to  her,  are  most  excellent 
people.  Their  home  is  the  typical  home  of  a  Scotch 
farmer  and  leader — leading  man — full  of  light,  rich  in 
books,  and  periodicals  and  music,  given  to  hospitality 
and  generous  of  comfort,  a  fireside  of  sweet  living  and 
high  thinking.  Captain  McNeill  is  himself  a  stalwart 
citizen,  fond  of  public  speaking,  in  which  he  is  accom- 
plished; devoted  to  the  young,  one  time  an  editor  and  lec- 
turer, a  writer  of  verse,  an  earnest  supporter  of  his 
church  and  party,  an  insatiable  reader,  and,  personally, 
a  most  delightful  companion.  His  wife  is  likewise  a 
woman  of  gifts  and  graces  worthy  of  her  line;  gentle, 
all-womanly,  her  face  a  delight  of  sweetness  and  her 
ways  the  ways  of  a  mother-heart.  Their  godly  lives 
adorn  their  confession  of  Jesus  Christ. 

John  Charles,  born  of  such  parents  and  reared  in  such 
a  community,  spent  his  youth  in  the  occupations  of  the 
farmer's  boy.  His  chief  taste  was  to  ''mind  the  cows," 
and  he  knew  also  the  plow  and  the  hoe ;  but  I  have  heard 
it  said  that  he  lost  many  a  furrow  because  he  would  read 
and  plow  at  the  same  time.  To  bring  the  cows  home  at 
evening;  to  do  the  chores  of  the  household;  to  attend 
school  in  the  hours ;  to  fish  and  hunt  and  roam  the  woods 
and  swim  the  river  and  explore  the  swamps  whenever 
he  could — these  were  the  other  elements  of  his  making. 
He  is  to  this  day  a  woodsman  of  parts,  the  trees  and 
flowers  and  birds  and  beasts,  their  habits  and  wants,  are 
known  to  him  as  by  second  nature,  and  likewise,  the 
homely  features  of  farm-life,  the  negro  songs  and  cus- 
toms, the  local  ne'er-do-wells,  the  original  characters — 
one  would  infer  upon  a  brief  acquaintance  with  him  that 


260  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

they,  no  less  than  the  more  innocent  children  of  nature, 
were  his  peculiar  friends. 

He  entered  school  in  early  youth  and  proved  an  apt 
student.  His  preparation  being  completed  in  the  Spring 
Hill  and  Whiteville  Academies,  he  entered  Wake  Forest 
College,  graduating  therefrom  in  1898  at  the  head  of  his 
class,  in  recognition  of  which  honor  he  was  awarded  the 
privilege  of  making  the  Valedictory  address.  His  poetic 
gifts  were  manifested  early  in  his  college  career,  and 
Prof.  B.  F.  Sledd  was  prompt  and  diligent  to  encourage 
and  direct  him.  In  the  college  magazine  his  verses  often 
appeared,  and  they  were  from  the  first  of  an  order  to 
command  attention.  In  fact,  while  his  poetry  has  gained 
in  range,  finish  and  abundance  in  the  years  since,  the 
strain  of  his  first  productions  may  yet  be  traced  in  all 
his  verse. 

He  was  chosen  to  assist  Professor  Sledd  as  tutor  in 
the  department  of  English  while  he  was  taking  his 
Bachelor's  degree,  and  he  improved  the  opportunity  that 
was  thus  afforded  to  remain  another  year  and  win  from 
Wake  Forest  the  master's  degree — the  highest  that  the 
college  awards — in  1899. 

In  1900  he  was  elected  Assistant  Professor  of  English 
in  Mercer  University,  of  Georgia;  but  after  a  year  he 
relinquished  this  post  for  the  practice  of  law,  having 
prepared  for  that  profession  at  Wake  Forest  in  1896- 
1897,  and  received  from  the  Supreme  Court  of  North 
Carolina  license  to  practice  in  1897.  He  opened  an 
office  in  Laurinburg — within  a  few  miles  of  Spring  Hill. 
It  was  my  fortune  to  spend  a  day  with  him  during  this 
period.  We  were  together  in  his  office;  there  were 
clients,  but  their  causes  were  obviously  foreign  to  the 
genius  of  Mr.  McNeill.  The  while  he  would  be  discuss- 
ing some  poem  or  reading  at  my  request  one  of  his  own, 


John  Charles  McNeill  261 

in  would  come  some  troubled  spirit  seeking  his  assist- 
ance in  getting  back  a  mule  that  had  been  swapped  in  a 
none  too  sober  moment. 

Nevertheless  this  was  a  fruitful  period  in  Mr.  Mc- 
Neill's career — both  as  a  poet  and  a  lawyer.  The  Cen- 
tury Magazine  readily  accepted  his  verses,  printed  them 
with  illustrations,  and  encouraged  him  to  send  others. 
On  the  other  hand,  clients  increased,  and,  moreover,  Mr. 
McNeill's  fellow  citizens  sent  him  to  the  General  Assem- 
bly of  North  Carolina — a  member  of  the  House.  In  this 
relation  he  acquitted  himself  well,  bringing  to  his  tasks 
a  homely  knowledge  of  his  people  and  a  sound  common 
sense. 

But  there  was  no  suppressing  the  higher  call.  With 
that  fine  appreciation  which  has  made  The  Carlotte  Ob- 
server notable  for  its  young  men — as  well  as  its  "Old 
Man" — editor  J.  P.  Caldwell  offered  Mr.  McNeill  a  place 
on  his  staff,  with  the  freedom  of  the  paper  and  the  world. 
I  have  the  editorial  announcement  to  support  me  in  the 
statement  that  Mr.  McNeill  was  assigned  to  no  especial 
post  nor  required  to  perform  any  particular  work.  His 
task  was  to  write  whatsoever  he  might  be  pleased  to 
write. 

We  owe  it  to  The  Charlotte  Observer  that  Mr.  Mc- 
Neill has  had  such  freedom  to  exercise  his  gifts.  His 
poems  have  come  in  perilous  abundance ;  and  at  the  same 
time  he  has  done  work  as  a  reporter  of  public  occasions 
that  alone  would  have  commanded  for  him  a  place  on  his 
paper.  He  has  also  produced  no  little  prose  of  original 
character  and  great  worth — paragraphs  portraying  life, 
humorous  incidents,  observations;  and  now  and  then  a 
series  of  excellent  fables  as  native  to  the  soil  and  as 
apropos  as  those  of  iEsop. 


262  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

Mr.  McNeill's  column  of  verses  promptly  commanded 
the  enthusiastic  praise  of  readers  throughout  the  State 
and  of  the  press  in  other  States.  He  was  hailed  as  a 
poet  indeed,  and  at  the  first  year's  end  he  was  unani- 
mously awarded  the  Patterson  Cup,  in  recognition  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  made  the  best  contribution  to  litera- 
ture in  North  Carolina.  This  cup  was  presented  to  Mr. 
McNeill  by  President  Roosevelt.  Within  the  year  fol- 
lowing he  published  his  one  volume,  entitled  "Songs 
Merry  and  Sad,"  and  the  first  edition  was  promptly 
exhausted. 

Mr.  McNeill's  poetic  gift  bears  these  marks :  it  is  lyric ; 
it  is  genuine ;  it  is  of  the  sun  rather  than  the  lamp ;  it  is 
close  to  nature — the  earth,  the  seasons,  man  and  beast, 
home  and  the  daily  round  of  experiences.  It  is  sugges- 
tive rather  than  descriptive,  and  spontaneous  rather 
than  labored.  There  is  pathos  and  humor;  but  above 
either  the  strain  of  tenderness  in  dominant,  tenderness 
of  phrase  and  of  feeling.  One  feels  that  he  has  yet  to 
strike  the  greater  chords,  and  at  the  same  time  he  is  con- 
vinced as  he  reads  that  he  has  all  but  done  that,  so 
nearly  having  attained  it,  that  at  any  moment  the  larger 
gift  may  be  ours. 

Such  songs  as  "Oh,  Ask  Me  Not,"  "A  Christmas 
Hymn,"  "When  I  Go  Home,"  "Harvest,"  and  "Vision," 
are  tokens  of  a  rich  vein  of  the  genuine  gold ;  while  the 
poems,  "October,"  "Sundown,"  "If  I  Could  Glimpse 
Kim,"  "Alcestis,"  "The  Bride,"  "Oblivion,"  "The  Caged 
Mockingbird,"  "Dawn,"  "Paul  Jones,"  as  I  have  inti- 
mated, though  they  have  not  yet  elevated  Mr.  McNeill 
above  the  rank  of  the  minor  poets,  they  carry  a  charm, 
they  work  upon  the  imagination  with  a  power,  they 
afford  a  subtle  joy  that  bespeaks  the  noblest  promise. 

Since  writing  the  foregoing  sketch,  The  South  At- 
lantic Quarterly  has  appeared  containing  a  critical  ap- 


John  Charles  McNeill  263 

preciation  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  McNeill,  by  Edward  K. 
Graham,  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  North  Carolina.  He  declares  that  Mr.  McNeill 
is  the  first  "North  Carolina  poet  to  win  the  ear  of  the 
whole  State";  and  speaks  of  his  volume  as  "The  most 
poetic  collection  by  a  North  Carolinian  that  has  yet  ap- 
peared." He  adds,  "At  a  time  when  poetry  has  lost  the 
appeal  of  passion,  it  is  peculiarly  grateful  to  come  into 
the  warm  confidence  of  emotion  always  gentle,  intimate, 
and  manly,  and  in  its  best  moments,  infinitely  tender." 
Professor  Graham's  conclusion,  on  the  whole,  is  implied 
in  his  final  sentence :  "Conviction  of  great  poetic  power 
we  seldom  feel  in  reading  the  volume,  but  the  presence  of 
the  divine  gift  of  poetry  we  are  always  sensible  of— the 
aift  to  minister  to  some  need  of  the  spirit— as  when  a 
simple  heart-song  speaks  the  heart  of  all  mankind." 

Thus  the  scholar's  critical  insight  confirms  the  public 
taste  which  had  already  chosen  Mr.  McNeill  as  the  favor- 
ite writer  of  all  this  region. 

While  the  copy  of  this  sketch  was  still  in  the  hands  of 
the  printer  the  death  of  Mr.  McNeill  occurred,  after  a 
lingering  illness,  at  his  home  near  Riverton,  Scotland 
County,  N.  C,  October  17,  1907. 


264  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

NORTH  CAROLINA  MOURNS  THE  DEATH  OF  A  POET 


By  Edward  L.  Conn. 


John  Charles  McNeill  is  dead,  and  North  Carolina 
mourns  the  death  of  a  true  poet.  But  no  sarcophagus 
can  hold  captive  the  spirit  of  an  immortal,  and  the  soul 
of  McNeill  with  its  golden  lute-notes  will  sing  to  many 
generations  to  come.  His  sensitive  spirit  was  super- 
refined  in  the  crucible  of  human  suffering;  his  gentle 
heart  was  purified  by  the  fire  of  experience,  kindling 
within  him  a  glow  of  sympathy  that  was  reflected  in  all 
his  singings,  and  a  flame  of  human  kindness  that  was 
both  light  and  warmth  to  sorrow-shadowed  and  adverse- 
stricken  hearts.  When  McNeill  was  moved  to  give  ex- 
pression to  his  emotions  in  verse,  that  expression  was  as 
sweet,  as  tender,  as  beautiful  as  the  soft-stirring  music 
of  hope  and  comfort  harped  by  celestial  minstrel.  He 
walked  uneven  paths,  or  no  paths.  Imagination's  prodi- 
gal son,  a  dreamer,  stirred  by  the  wander-lust,  moving 
restlessly  from  the  lowlands  close  to  the  heaving  bosom 
of  the  Atlantic,  through  the  countless  mingling  glories 
of  the  interior  to  the  everlasting  mountains,  where  in- 
numerable, awful  forms  lift  their  mighty  heads  toward 
heaven.  He  built  on  his  heart  an  altar  of  love,  and  upon 
it  offered  to  the  Nature  which  gave  him  life  the  unblem- 
ished offspring  of  his  genius. 

Time  will  impartially  place  a  just  estimate  upon  the 
worth  of  his  work,  and  critics  will  search  and  weigh  the 
treasury  of  his  mind.  I  knew  John  Charles  McNeill  as 
a  man  and  loved  him  with  the  passionate  fondness  of  a 
friend.  Many  years  ago  the  infinite  charm  of  his  man- 
ner and  the  attraction  of  that  personality,  whose  in- 
herent goodness  and  grace  and  glory  were  the  delight 
and  inspiration  of  those  who  knew  him  well,  drew  me  to 
him.     His  voice  was  music  and  thrilled;  sad  are  those 


John  Charles  McNeill  265 

friends  who  had  made  of  his  friendship  a  part  of  their 
own  life,  and  who  will  hear  his  voice  no  more.  But  in 
his  verses  are  comfort  and  good  cheer,  and  he  would  not 
have  them  troubled. 

Three  months  ago  I  saw  McNeill  last.  We  had  met 
in  the  mountains  that  he  loved  so  well  and  knew  so 
intimately.  They  were  decked  in  their  midsummer 
splendors,  and  the  exhilerating  air,  clear,  sparkling- 
water,  flowers,  birds,  beasts  and  people,  and  the  freedom 
and  abandon  of  all  did  McNeill's  heart  good.  To  him  it 
was  a  place  of  Edenic  loveliness  and  completeness. 

The  press  dispatches  said  his  health  was  improved, 
and  he  returned  east.  But  as  he  descended  the  eastern 
slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge  the  gales  that  swept  down  upon 
him  told  him  an  eternal  farewell ;  for  Death  was  drop- 
ping a  shadowy  veil  across  his  fine  features;  the  lute- 
like voice  was  more  nearly  attuned  to  those  which  form 
the  choirs  invisible ;  and  the  lambent  gleam  in  his  shin- 
ing eyes  was  a  reflex  of  things  that  mortal  eyes  see  not. 
McNeill  was  leaving  the  passes  of  the  world  and  he  real- 
ized it.  He  uttered  no  words  of  complaint,  scarcely  did 
he  confess  regret,  nor  found  he  fault  with  fate,  or  des- 
tiny, or  God.  Autumn  transformed  the  hills  and  the 
vales  and  the  lowlands  and  spread  an  indescribable 
beauty  over  the  myriad  places  that  were  loved  by  Mc- 
Neill, so  that  his  ascending  soul  might  view  them  in 
their  utmost  glory  as  he  entered  the  avenues  of  the  Un- 
known. But  Winter  will  learn  that  he  is  gone,  and  will 
shroud  the  earth  in  mourning  raiment. 

An  alumnus  of  Wake  Forest,  this  college  had  a  peculiar 
pride  in  McNeill's  achievements.  Lawyer,  journalist, 
scholar,  poet,  gentleman:  he  was  human  and  was  not 
without  flaw ;  but  he  was  a  man  without  an  enemy.  He 
was  born  to  be  loved,  and  he  had  the  joy  to  know,  years 
before  his  lamented  and  untimely  death,  that  he  had 
won  the  affections  of  the  people  of  his  native  State. 


266  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


By  Dr.  Archibald  Henderson,  of  the  University  of  North  Carolina. 


The  loss  to  the  State  of  North  Carolina  in  the  recent 
death  of  John  Charles  McNeill  is  incalculable.  Had  I 
never  met  or  known  McNeill  I  should  say  the  same  thing. 
The  South  will  feel  his  loss  more  keenly  as  time  goes  on. 
I  believe  that  the  verse  of  John  Charles  McNeill,  aside 
from  its  notable  merits  as  genuine  poetry,  has  been  un- 
rivalled as  an  inspiring  influence  in  the  remarkable  re- 
surgence of  literature  which  promises  to  give  North 
Carolina  in  the  near  future  a  prominence  of  national  mo- 
ment. It  would  be  incorrect  to  speak  of  the  present  era 
as  the  renaissance  of  literature  in  North  Carolina.  It 
is  not  a  rebirth,  but  more  properly  a  new,  a  virgin  birth. 
Young  men  and  women,  informed  with  the  spirit  of 
scholarship,  touched  with  passion  for  the  beautiful,  en- 
dowed with  the  divine  fire  itself,  have  risen  up  in  our 
midst.  The  extent  and  value  of  their  achieving  is  not 
yet  either  told  or  foretold.  Almost  at  the  same  time 
throughout  the  State,  many  voices  have  found  utterance. 
The  younger  generation  is  beginning  to  feel  the  magic 
pulse  of  the  Zeitgeist,  to  shake  off  the  stifling  incubus  of 
materialism,  and  to  give  voice  at  last  to  the  sentiment 
and  passion  that  is  in  their  hearts. 

Were  I  to  symbolize  North  Carolina  in  a  piece  of 
splendid  sculpture,  I  should  image  no  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
musty  with  traditions  and  prejudices  of  the  past,  awak- 
ing from  an  ante-bellum  dream.  It  should  be  repre- 
sented by  no  man  of  middle  age,  fatigued  with  the  heat 
and  labor  of  the  day,  struggling  up  a  steep  acclivity  to 
the   precarious   pinnacle   of  materialistic   success.      It 


John  Chakles  McNeill  2C7 

should  be  symbolized  as  a  youth,  just  stretching  his 
limbs  in  readiuess  for  the  part  he  is  so  soon  to  play  in 
the  spiritual  life  of  the  uatiou.  The  head  should  not  be 
hung  in  shame  for  imputed  backwardness  or  rebellious- 
ness°in  the  past,  but  held  high ;  the  eyes  uplifted,  the  face 
transfigured  by  the  light  of  the  ideal,  and  wearing  an  ex- 
press^ which  gladly  says  Yea  to  all  the  Universe  And 
the  face  of  this  statue  should  be  the  face  of  John  Charles 

McNeill.  ,  , ,  T 

I  could  not,  even  though  my  heart  bade,  nor  would  I 
wholly,  even  though  language  might  not  fail  me,  express 
all  that  I  feel  and  have  felt  over  the  death  of  John 
Charles  McNeill.  Liking,  friendship,  love  arc ,  all  so 
strange,  so  unique,  so  different  from  one  another  that  he 
world  has  fallen  into  the  slovenly  habit  of  confusing  the 
-noiiu  u«t«  «iikpd"  McNeill  or  that  he 

terms.     I  can  not  say  that  I    Ukeu    MtiNeui 
had  my  "friendship" ;  the  world  is  already  too  full  of 
peopm  who  never  get  beyond  mere  "liking,"  and  who 
never  mention  "friends"  save  to  boast  of  ttor  number 
and  importance  in  the  world.     But  I  can  say  that  Mc- 
Neill had  my  love,  and  that  I  was  drawn  towards  him 
as  to  few  men  of  my  own  age  that  I  have  ever  known 
There  was  about  him  the  simplicity  and  the  charm,  i 
not  of  innocence,  certainly  of  native  gentleness.      He 
had  something  of  the  primal,  I  might  almost  say    he 
primeval,  joy  of  life  in  his  make-up.     Here  was  a  gen  us 
without    hVweltschnierz,  a  poet  lacking  that  devitahz- 
ing  note  of  poignant  melancholy  wh ich  , pounds Jtoongh- 
out  the  poetry  of  the  modern  era,  from  Burns  to  Maeter 
Tuck   from  Heine  to  George  Meredith.    There  was  no 
tear  engraved  upon  his  armorial  bearings.    His  was  not 
Z  baffling  and  artificial  simplicity   which  in  our  day 
is  the  last  refuge  of  complexity.    He  oved  simpl .things 
-the  pine-rosin  which  a  tiny  girl  gathered  and  sent  him 


268  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

all  the  way  to  Charlotte  to  chew,  a  homely  and  human 
story  about  some  old  darkey,  a  superstition  about  plant- 
ing something  or  other  in  the  dark  of  the  moon,  a  bit  of 
folk-lore  lost  to  the  tumultuous  world  of  street  cars,  but 
still  very  vital  in  the  life  of  people  who  live  close  to  the 
heart  of  Nature.  McNeill,  in  all  he  said  and  did,  was 
racy  of  the  soil.  The  modern  world  had  not  robbed  him 
of  his  primitive  glamour,  and  his  native  wood-notes  wild 
poured  forth  in  a  stream  of  wonderful  richness,  in  total 
disregard  of  the  noise  and  blatant  clamor  of  modern 
populations. 

The  old  tag,  "Human  nature,  is  the  same  the  world 
over,'7  expresses  one  of  the  greatest  errors  ever  com- 
pressed in  a  phrase.  Human  nature  is  different  every- 
where, by  reason  of  the  mere  inequality  of  its  distribu- 
tion. Our  phrase,  "He's  just  like  folks,"  is  a  high  com- 
pliment; it  means  that  the  subject  has  a  great  deal  of 
human  nature  in  his  composition.  McNeill  was  charged 
to  overflowing  with  human  nature.  His  humor  was  un- 
failing. The  things  that  stuck  in  his  mind  were  not 
clever  epigrams  or  brilliant  bits  of  repartee.  He  loved 
to  remember  stories  of  large  and  genial  humor,  exhibit- 
ing some  comical  betrayal  of  human  nature,  illumi- 
nating some  fine  phase  of  human  feeling.  His  spirit  was 
sweet  and  gentle — beyond  words.  Harshness  or  bitter- 
ness seemed  never  to  have  touched  him.  Incidents  that 
might  well  have  grated  harshly  upon  the  sensibilities  of 
any  man  left  him  unmarked  and  unprejudiced.  He 
turned  unpleasantness  away  with  an  easy  and  genial 
smile. 

The  conceit  of  men  of  talent,  and  of  genius — artists, 
musicians,  litterateurs — is  proverbial.  I  have  observed 
traces  of  it  even  in  the  greatest  men  of  genius  I  have  ever 
met.    McNeill  was  utterly  lacking,  as  much  as  I  can  con- 


John  Charles  McNeill  269 

ceive  it  possible  for  any  one  to  be,  in  all  conceit  or  false 
pride.  Coventry  Patmore  has  said  that  true  genius  is 
never  aware  of  itself.  McNeill  discussed  his  own  poetry 
with  perfect  detachment.  If  there  Avas  any  quality  which 
he  utterly  lacked,  it  was  self-consciousness.  He  dis- 
cussed his  own  poetry  as  though  it  were  the  work  of 
some  one  else.  "Here's  a  little  thing  of  mine,"  he  would 
say,  "that  was  copied  from  Maine  to  Florida.  There's 
absolutely  nothing  in  it.  Why  any  one  should  have 
thought  it  funny  is  simply  more  than  I  can  understand." 
And  with  equal  lack  of  the  faintest  trace  of  embarrass- 
ment, vanity  or  mauvaisc  Jionte,  he  could  sa}7,  "Here's 
another  little  poem  of  mine  I  am  very  fond  of.  I  think 
it  is  one  of  the  best  I  have  done."  And  with  a  note  of 
genuine  pride,  he  would  say,  "Let  me  read  you  this  one. 
The  old  man  likes  it";  and  then,  in  that  rich,  mellow 
voice,  he  would  give  music  and  color  to  the  beauty  of  his 
lines.  I  shall  never  forget  the  pleasure  he  once  gave  a 
New  England  woman — a  person  of  fine  sensibilities  and 
herself  a  writer  of  verse.  She  was  rapturously  enthusi- 
astic over  his  recital  of  his  simple  dialect  poems,  "Wire 
Grass,"  "Po'  Baby,"  and  "Spring." 

As  a  lover  of  nature,  McNeill  was  without  an  equal  in 
sincerity  and  faith.  As  a  student  of  nature,  he  was  in 
no  sense  remarkable  in  the  academic  signification.  He 
neither  knew  nor  cared  to  know  the  sesquipedalian  Latin 
name  of  some  favorite  little  flower;  he  did  not  pretend 
to  the  chemical  secrets  of  the  soil  survey;  technical  ob- 
fuscations  of  any  sort  were  not  for  him.  He  knew  nature 
not  as  a  botanist  but  as  a  poet,  not  as  a  scientific  natural- 
ist but  as  a  nature  lover.  Like  Walt  Whitman,  rather 
than  like  John  Burroughs,  he  was  skilled,  through  close 
acquaintance  and  interested  observation,  in  many  curious 
and  half-forgotten  secrets  of  nature  and  her  creatures 


270  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

which  do  not  find  their  way  into  the  text-book.  I  never 
saw  him  without  thinking  of  Whitman's  poem  about  the 
student  in  astronomy  who  fled  from  the  lecturer  out  into 
the  night,  there  to  lie  down  and  look  up  at  the  stars  in 
worshipful  wonder  and  adoration. 

I  shall  never  forget  a  reading  McNeill  once  gave  us 
here  at  Chapel  Hill — a  running  fire  of  dialect  verse, 
humorous  commentary,  uegro  anecdotes,  and  folk-lore 
tales.  It  was,  without  exception,  the  most  successful  so- 
called  "reading" — story-telling  in  prose  and  poetry  were 
a  fitter  term  of  description — that  I  have  ever  known. 
With  curious  interest  I  glanced  around  for  a  moment  to 
observe  the  utter  absorption  in  McNeill's  personality  and 
its  expression.  There  was  not  one  person  in  that  au- 
dience not  wholly  oblivious  of  surroundings,  of  self,  of 
all  else  save  McNeill,  whose  fine  face  lit  up  with  a  humor- 
ous glow,  and  his  mellow,  resonant  voice  with  its  subtle 
note  of  appeal,  held  them  bound  as  by  some  mystic  spell  of 
sorcery.  And  McNeill  often  told  me  afterwards  that  the 
audience  that  night,  for  inspiration  and  perfect  sympa- 
thy, was  without  a  parallel  in  his  experience. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  rid  mvself  of  the  feeling  that 
John  Charles  McNeill  has  not  been  accurately  or  dis- 
criminatingly praised  for  some  certain  things  he  did  su- 
premely well.  "Songs  Merry  and  Sad"  threatened  to 
suppress  the  fact  that  McNeill  was  pre-eminently  a  poet 
of  the  common  life,  a  singer  of  the  farm,  the  field,  the 
home.  Many  things  which  I  believed  to  be  fundamen- 
tally characteristic  of  McNeill  as  poet  found  no  place  in 
this  collection.  Things  which  I  had  learned  to  love  and 
to  expect  from  him — the  negro,  and  Scotch  dialect  poems, 
certain  fancies  about  Spring,  half-remembered,  even  po- 
etically divined  sketches  of  early  home  and  beloved 
countryside — of  these  there  were  only  traces.      Indeed, 


John  Charles  McNeill  271 

in  spite  of  the  versatility  displayed  and  wide  range  cov- 
ered, I  could  not  but  feel  the  minimization,  if  not  actual 
suppression,  of  that  phase  of  McNeill's  art  which  most 
appealed  to  me.  Those  who  know  McNeill's  poetry  only 
as  revealed  in  "Songs,  Merry  and  Sad,"  may  be  be- 
trayed into  ranging  him  alongside  Mifflin,  Moody,  Ar- 
thur, Stringer,  John  Vance  Cheney  and  Charles  Hanson 
Towne,  for  comparison.  Wider  acquaintance  with  his 
poetry,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  would  reveal  that  he  is 
far  more  akin  to  Maurice  Thompson,  Frank  L.  Stanton, 
and  James  Whitcomb  Riley.  Dozens  of  poems  not  in- 
cluded in  "Songs,  Merry  and  Sad" — and,  of  those  in- 
cluded, "When  I  Go  Home/'  "Barefooted"  and  "Before 
Bedtime" — at  once  call  to  mind  the  specific  features  of 
Riley  as  revealed  in  such  poems  as  "Thinkin'  Back"  and 
"Wet  Weather  Talk."  There  is  the  same  large  sense  of 
lazy,  rural  ease,  the  chuckling  air  of  boyish  freedom,  the 
vivid  pictures  of  the  simple  pleasures,  occupations,  and 
discussions  of  farm  life.  I  have  often  felt,  in  reading 
many  of  McNeill's  fugitive  lines  in  The  Charlotte  Obser- 
ver that  he  had  a  humorous,  quaint,  backwoods  sense  of 
homely  values  not  unlike  the  same  qualities  in  the  short 
poems  of  Frank  L.  Stanton.  I  do  not  mean  that  the 
mode  of  expression  was  necessarily  the  same;  the  feel- 
ings played  upon,  the  sentiments  evoked  were  identical. 
There  was  at  times,  in  McNeill's  verse,  the  careless  or 
carefree  instinct  of  truantry  as  we  find  it  on  occasions 
in  the  prose  of  writers  so  diverse  as  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son, Owen  Wister,  and  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards.  Mc- 
Neill expressed  for  me  the  individual  and  significant  note 
of  the  rural  South,  much  as  Joel  Chandler  Harris  may 
be  said  to  express  it  in  his  own  fashion.  The  natural 
feeling,  the  simple  ideals  of  McNeill — frankness,  loyalty, 
love,  honor,  courage — were  irresistibly  appealing  in  their 


272  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

mere  numerical  limitation.  Lacking  any  trace  of  the 
sectional,  McNeill  had  a  fine  sense  for  local  color  and 
the  genius  of  place.  And  yet  there  was  no  hint  in  his 
poetry  of  that  strained  and  artificial  idealism  which 
mars  much  that  has  been  written  in  the  South. 

In  his  brief  and  homely  realism,  his  fancy  so  quaint 
and  simple,  McNeill  was  a  master.  Though  it  is  not,  I 
feel,  the  most  apt  illustration  that  might  be  found,  the 
little  poem,  "Before  Bedtime,"  suits  my  purpose  for  the 
moment  in  expressing  that  fine  fidelity  to  fact,  that 
pedestrian  realism  which  is  given  only  to  spirits  nursed 
on  reality  to  achieve. 

"The  cat  sleeps  in  a  chimney  jamb 

With  ashes  in  her  fur, 
An'  Tige,  from  the  yuther  side, 
He  keeps  his  eye  on  her. 

The  jar  o'  curds  is  on  the  hearth, 

An'  I'm  the  one  to  turn  it. 
I'll  crawl  in  bed  an'  go  to  sleep 

When  maw  begins  to  churn  it. 

Paw  bends  to  read  his  almanax 

An'  study  out  the  weather, 
An'  bud  has  got  a  gourd  o'  grease 

To  ile  his  harness  leather. 

Sis  looks  an'  looks  into  the  fire, 

Half-squintin'  through  her  lashes, 
An'  I  jis  watch  my  tater  where 

It  shoots  smoke  through  the  ashes." 

For  imaginative  power  of  evocation  of  a  familiar  scene 
utterly  simple  and  without  any  glamour  of  interest  save 
that  of  fond  association,  this  poem  is  illustrative  of  one 
of  the  things  McNeill  could  do  supremely  well. 

In  his  poems  of  nature,  McNeill  carries  me  back,  less 
to  Burns  with  his  spirits  cry  of  poignant  pain,  than  to 
Wordsworth  with  his  brooding  quiet.     There  is  even  a 


John  Charles  McNeill  273 

faint  note  of  sestheticism  now  and  then,  notably  in  the 
Carmanesque  Protest;  like  a  true  modern  poet,  McNeill 
is  fired  to  revolt  against  this  materialistic  age,  this  twi- 
light of  the  gods  of  poetry.  McNeill's  admiration  for  the 
Marpessa  of  Stephen  Phillips  was  immense;  and  I  have 
felt  at  times  that  he  would  have  liked  to  owe  something 
to  Swinburne.  The  philosophic  didacticism  of  Bryant, 
the  almost  scientific  moodiness  of  Poe  find  no  answering 
note  in  the  poetry  of  McNeill.  Indeed,  he  is  content  to 
observe  with  rare  accuracy,  letting  Nature  speak  its  mes- 
sage to  you  in  its  own  most  potent  of  tongues.  McNeill 
was  essentially  an  observer,  not  an  intrepreter  of  Na- 
ture's moods.  Instead  of  explaining,  he  re-created  Na- 
ture, and  was  strong  enough  to  hold  his  tongue  and  let 
Nature  speak  for  herself.  What  need  for  words,  either 
of  interpretation,  inspiration  or  regret,  in  face  of  the 
mute  eloquence  of  such  a  picture : 

"A  soaking  sedge, 
A  faded  field,  a  leafless  hill  and  hedge, 

Low  clouds  and  rain, 

And  loneliness  and  languor  worse  than  pain. 

Mottled  with  moss, 

Each  gravestone  holds  to  heaven  a  patient  cross. 

Shrill  streaks  of  light 

Two  sycamores'  clean-limbed,  funeral  white, 

And  low  between, 

The  sombre  cedar  and  the  ivy  green. 

Upon  the  stone 

Of  each  in  turn  who  called  this  land  his  own 

The  gray  rain  beats 

And  wraps  the  wet  world  in  its  flying  sheets, 

And  at  my  eaves 

A  slow  wind,  ghostlike,  comes  and  grieves  and  grieves. 


274  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

And  how  worshipful  in  its  submissive  calm  and  adora- 
tive  contemplation  is  that  brief  poem,  Sundown,  which 
always  calls  up  for  me  the  most  exquisite  aesthetic  mo- 
ment of  my  life — a  post-sunset  creation  of  God  in  sky, 
crescent  moon,  earth  and  mountain  I  once  saw,  or  rather 
lived,  in  the  Appalachians — a  recollection  that  moves  me 
profoundly  even  as  I  write : 

"Hills  wrapped  in  gray,  standing  along  the  west; 
Clouds,  dimly  lighted,  gathering  slowly; 
The  star  of  peace  at  watch  above  the  crest — 
Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy! 

We  know,  0  Lord,  so  little  what  is  best; 

Wingless,  we  move  so  lowly; 
But  in  Thy  calm  all-knowledge  let  us  rest — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy!" 

If  McNeill  had  lived,  and  had  regained  his  health,  I 
am  convinced  that  his  poetry  would  have  shown  a  finish, 
a  dexterity  of  workmanship,  a  refinement  of  poetic  crafts- 
manship of  which  he  was  fully  capable  on  occasion. 
How  often  he  delighted  with  a  happy  line,  a  transient 
imaging  of  a  faniful  concept,  or  a  crystallization  in  one 
fine  phrase  of  the  spiritual  content  of  his  thought!  He 
has  told  me  many  times  that  his  future  aim  was  towards 
greater  perfection  of  phrase,  clearer  delineation  of  mo- 
tive. In  introducing  him  before  our  Modern  Literature 
Club  I  pronounced  him  the  most  authentic  poet  North 
Carolina  has  yet  produced.  It  is  my  definite  conviction 
that  McNeill  is  not  fully  known  through  "Songs,  Merry 
and  Sad"  for  those  traits  which  are  most  sismallv  char- 
acteristic  of  his  temperament,  for  those  qualities  in 
which  he  was  most  individual.  But  by  this  I  do  not 
mean  the  faintest  detraction  from  the  many  and  varied 
merits  of  "Songs,  Merry  and  Sad."  In  fact,  I  was  glad 
to  learn  from  McNeill  himself  that  the  poem  in  this  vol- 


John  Charles  McNeill  275 

nine  which  I  rated  highest  was  also  his  own  preference, 
the  one  in  which  he  felt  his  purpose  and  art  best  ex- 
pressed. This  poem,  judged  by  Richard  Watson  Gilder 
to  be  worthy  of  Byron  himself,  is  Oh,  Ask  Me  Not.  We 
feel  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  the  abandon  of  youth, 
the  genuine  heart's  cry  of  "The  world  well  lost  for  love." 

"Love,  should  I  set  my  heart  upon  a  crown, 
Squander  my  years,  and  gain  it, 
What  recompense  of  pleasure  could  I  own? 
For  youth's  red  drops  would  stain  it. 

Much  have  I  thought  on  what  our  lives  may  mean, 

And  what  their  best  endeavor, 
Seeing  we  may  not  come  again  to  glean, 

But,  losing,  lose  forever. 

Seeing  how  zealots,  making  choice  of  pain, 

From  home  and  country  parted, 
Have  thought  it  life  to  leave  their  fellows  slain, 

Their  women  broken-hearted. 

How  teasing  truth  a  thousand  faces  claims 

As  in  a  broken  mirror, 
And  what  a  father  died  for  in  the  flames 

His  own  son  scorns  as  error; 

How  even  they  whose  hearts  were  sweet  with  song 

Must  quaff  oblivion's  potion, 
And,  soon  or  late,  their  sails  be  lost  along 

The  all-surrounding  ocean. 

Oh,  ask  me  not  the  haven  of  our  ships, 

Nor  what  flag  floats  above  you! 
I  hold  you  close,  I  kiss  your  sweet,  sweet  lips, 

And  love  you,  love  you,  love  you! 

McNeill  once  told  me  that  while  he  regarded  the  cen- 
tral situation  of  "The  Bride"  the  most  potently  signifi- 
cant, the  most  fraught  with  meaning  that  can  be  con- 
ceived, he  always  felt  that  he  had  not  fully  measured  up 
to  the  opportunity  and  the  situation.     Perhaps  it  may 


276  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

be  true  that  our  reserves  are  often  more  eloquent  than 
our  confidences.  The  office  of  poetry  is  not  to  exhaust 
possibilities.  The  selection  of  that  moment  of  inexpres- 
sible meaning  in  life  was  in  itself  a  stroke  of  genius. 

"The  little  white  bride  is  left  alone 
With  him,  her  lord;  the  guests  have  gone; 

The  festal  hall  is  dim. 
No  jesting  now,  nor  answering  mirth. 
The  hush  of  sleep  falls  on  the  earth 
And  leaves  her  here  with  him. 

Why  should  there  be,  0  little  white  bride, 
When  the  world  has  left  you  by  his  side, 

A  tear  to  brim  your  eyes? 
Some  old  love-face  that  comes  again, 
Some  old  love-moment,  sweet  with  pain 

Of  passionate  memories? 

Does  your  heart  yearn  back  with  last  regret 
For  the  fairy  meads  of  mignonette 

And  the  fairy-haunted  wood, 
That  you  had  not  withheld  from  love, 
A  little  while,  the  freedom  of 

Your  happy  maidenhood? 

Or  is  it  but  a  nameless  fear, 

A  wordless  joy,  that  calls  the  tear 

In  dumb  appeal  to  rise, 
When,  looking  on  him  where  he  stands, 
You  yield  up  all  into  his  hands, 

Pleading  into  his  eyes? 

For  days  that  laugh  or  nights  that  weep 
You  two  strike  oars  across  the  deep 

With  life's  tide  at  the  brim; 
And  all  time's  beauty,  all  love's  grace, 
Beams,  little  bride,  upon  your  face 

Here,  looking  up  at  him." 

If  there  is  any  one  poem  which  best  expresses  the  real 
sweetness,  the  high  seriousness  of  McNeill's  character, 
and  the  finer  nature  of  his  poetic  muse,  I  should  say  that 


John  Charles  McNeill  277 

it  was  aTo  Melvin  Gardner:  Suicide."  It  is  instinct 
with  the  quintessental  traits  of  McNeill  both  as  poet 
and  man.  To  dilate  the  imagination  and  to  move  the 
heart  is  ample  raison  &'  etre  for  any  poem. 

"A  flight  of  doves,  with  wanton  wings, 

Flash  white  against  the  sky. 
In  the  leafy  copse  an  oriole  sings, 

And  a  robin  sings  hard  by. 
Sun  and  shadow  are  out  on  the  hills; 
The  swallow  has  followed  the  daffodils; 
In  leaf  and  blade,  life  throbs  and  thrills 

Through  the  wild,  warm  heart  of  May. 

To  have  seen  the  sun  come  back,  to  have  seen 

Children  again  at  play, 
To  have  heard  the  thrush  where  the  woods  are  green, 

Welcome  the  new-born  day, 
To  have  felt  the  soft  grass  cool  to  the  feet, 
To  have  smelt  earth's  incense,  heavenly  sweet, 
To  have  shared  the  laughter  along  the  street, 

And,  then,  to  have  died  in  May! 

A  thousand  roses  will  blossom  red, 

A  thousand  hearts  be  gay, 
For  the  summer  lingers  just  ahead 

And  June  is  on  her  way; 
The  bee  must  bestir  him  to  fill  his  cells, 
The  moon  and  the  stars  will  weave  new  spells 
Of  love  and  the  music  of  marriage  bells — 

And,  oh,  to  be  dead  in  May! 

In  Avery  and  McNeill  the  State  has  sustained  losses 
not  to  be  filled  perhaps  in  a  generation.  Avery's  hold 
upon  the  public  was  truly  astounding;  his  audience  was 
almost  incredibly  large ;  and  I  have  often  wondered  how 
many  people  there  were  in  the  world  who  always  turned 
first  of  all  to  the  column  marked  Idle  Comments  in  The 
Charlotte  Observer.  Avery  expressed  in  prose  of  simple 
pathos  and  universal  sentiment  the  piquancy,  poetry, 
and  romance  of  everyday  life,  the  humour  and  the  glam- 
3 


278  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

our  of  tons  les  jours.  He  dwelt  lovingly  upon  the  little 
touching  incidents  daily  entering  into  the  life  of  man-in- 
the-street.  His  views  of  quiet  and  delicate  humour  finds 
its  analogue  in  Owen  Wister.  Avery  always  impressed 
me  as  an  American  Charles  Lamb  of  journalism,  with  a 
tremendous  infusion  of  sentiment.  His  appeal  to  the 
popular  heart  seemed  to  arise  from  his  power  of  express- 
ing those  sentiments  of  tender  and  romantic  content 
which  this  garish  twentienth  century  has  not  yet  quite 
succeeded  in  destroying  here  in  the  South. 

In  his  own  way,  individual,  unique,  McNeill  likewise 
expressed  sentiment — strong,  manly,  sincere.  His  in- 
strument was  the  finer  of  the  two,  and  his  triumph  lay  in 
his  reserve.  Strength  and  sweetness  are  the  most  fun- 
damental note  in  the  symphony  of  his  art.  His  heart 
was  genuine  and  true.  His  mood  was  never  distorted  by 
hopeless  regret,  futile  despair,  or  catch-penny  pessimism. 
His  sentiment  rang  out  clear  and  true — free  from  all 
taint  of  modern  morbidity.  Sentimentality  had  no  place 
in  his  make-up.  Gentleness  not  softness,  real  feeling 
and  not  imaginative  emotionalism,  informed  his  verse. 
And  his  ideal  of  art  was  fine  and  noble.  Such  a  phrase 
as  "his  widowed  sea"  in  Paul  Jones  is  worth  a  dozen 
poems  of  the  minor  singers  of  to-day,  and  left  the  im- 
pression of  potential  greatness.  I  earnestly  hope  that 
the  manuscript  of  the  volume  of  poems  McNeill  read  to 
me  last  spring  will  soon  find  its  way  to  publication.  Then 
we  shall  have  even  more  convincing  evidence  that  there 
has  passed  from  our  midst — and  left  us  profoundly  sor- 
rowing, yet  not  before  we  have  learned  to  admire  and  to 
love  him,  a  fine  and  gentle  spirit  who  was  not  only  a 
talent  in  esse  but  a  genius  in  futuro — John  Charles  Mc- 
Neill. 


John  Charles  McNeill  279 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


By  J.  P.  Caldwell,  Editor  of  the  Charlotte  Observer. 


John  Charles  McNeill  has  embarked  upon  that  un- 
known sea  that  rolls  round  all  the  world.  We  pre- 
tend to  no  shock  of  surprise.  For  long  the  mark  of 
death  has  been  written  in  his  face  and  those  who  loved 
him  most  have  not  mis-read  it.  But  reflect  as  we  may 
upon  the  fact,  seek  as  we  may  to  accustom  ourselves  to 
the  thought  of  his  absence,  it  is  new  and  cruel  and  the 
philosophy  of  life  is  invoked  in  vain  for  alleviation  of 
the  pain  of  it  all.  The  public  knew  him  through  the  ex- 
quisite verse  he  gave  it  and  through  which  ran  his  soul, 
and  admired  him ;  but  to  those  who  were  in  intimate  per- 
sonal contact  with  him  he  attached  himself  with  the  ten- 
derest  ties  of  affection,  suggested  by  something  else  than 
his  mere  intellectual  qualities.  There  was  never  a 
sweeter  spirit.  His  presence  meant  sunshine.  He  was 
uniform  of  mood,  the  mood  ever  delightful,  and  one  who 
knew  him  to-day  knew  him  yesterday,  to-morrow,  always. 
This  was  the  man  in  person.  Plain,  simple,  natural. 
He  could  not  have  pretended  if  he  had  wanted  to;  the 
beauty  of  his  character  was  its  perfect  naturalness.  He 
was  amiable  almost  to  a  fault,  and  under  this  roof,  where 
men  are  judged  by  each  other,  where  friendships  are  ce- 
mented and  characteristics  discerned,  no  harsh  words  of 
his,  no  unkindly  criticism  by  him  of  any  human  being 
can  be  recalled.  It  was  a  golden  heart.  He  compelled 
affection ;  without  trying  to  find  his  way  into  the  hearts 
of  people,  he  won  irresistibly  whoever  came  within  the 
circle  of  his  acquaintanceship.  He  was  so  near  the 
heart  of  the  writer  that  it  is  difficult  at  this  moment  to 
write  of  him  conservatively,  and  it  is  not  singular  that 


280  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

the  proper  words  do  not  come  when  one  stands  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  grief.  It  is  the  opprobrium  of  life 
that  now  as  ever,  while  friends  fall  around  us,  the  inex- 
orable demand  of  duty  compels  us  and  we  must  go  our 
usual  ways,  employ  our  common  words  and  meet  the 
great  world  with  smiling  faces,  though  our  hearts  be  as 
heavy  as  lead. 

North  Carolina  was  good  to  this  young  man;  it 
weighed  him  at  his  worth ;  he  was  conscious  of  this  and 
was  grateful  for  it — saying  always  that  he  was  over- 
estimated and  appraised  for  more  than  he  was.  Such 
was  his  modesty.  The  intelligent,  discriminating  pub- 
lic knew  him  better  than  he  knew  himself.  We  think  it 
is  not  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  he  was  the  greatest 
genius  our  State  has  yet  produced;  that  no  one  of  our 
people  has  written  such  poetry  as  he.  He  would  have 
combatted  quickly  the  expression  of  this  judgment,  yet 
it  is  submitted  in  confidence  to  the  deliberate  considera- 
tion of  those  who  have  followed  him,  and  there  is  the 
added  test  that  he  had  ready  access  to  the  columns  of 
the  first  magazines  of  the  country. 

He  died  before  his  time.  He  died  when  his  genius  had 
budded  and  was  just  coming  into  flower.  There  is  no 
guessing  what  he  might  have  accomplished.  Nothing 
could  apply  better  than  the  words  written  of  another : 

"Touched  by  his  hand,  the  wayside  weed 
Becomes  a  flower;  the  lowliest  reed 

Beside  the  stream 
Is  clothed  with  beauty;  gorse  and  grass 
And  heather,  where  his  footsteps  pass, 

The  brighter  seem. 

And  then  to  die  so  young  and  leave 
Unfinished  what  he  might  achieve! 

Yet  better  sure 
Is  this,  than  wandering  up  and  down 
An  old  man  in  a  country  town, 

Infirm  and  poor." 


John  Charles  McNeill  281 

"To  die  so  young !"     That  seems  to  be  the  tragedy  of 

thp  case. 

Forever  while  those  who  knew  and  loved  him— and  we 
are  manv— live,  he  will  be  mourned  and  missed.  Dear 
fellow !  *  He  lacked  in  his  last  nights  the  blessed  boon  of 
sleep,  and  there  could  be  no  more  appropriate  conclusion 
of  this  lame  and  impotent  tribute  than  in  the  reproduc- 
tion of  his  invocation  to  that  elusive  goddess,  one  of  the 
latest  as  it  was  one  of  the  sweetest  things  he  ever  wrote: 

TO    SLEEP. 

"Wherein  have  I  displeased  thee,  fickle  Sleep, 
0  sweetheart  Sleep,  that  thou  so  far  away 
Hast  wandered  and  hast  made  so  long  thy  stay? 
I  perish  for  some  spell  to  call  and  keep 
Thee  near  me,  that  thy  gentle  arts  may  steep 
My  brain  with  calm,  from  dusk  till  dawn  of  day! 
The  night's  long  hours  are  blind  and  love  delay, 
But,  with  thee,  I  would  bless  them  that  they  creep. 

Once,  night  by  night,  as  love's  own  self  wast  thou; 
Over  my  boyhood's  couch  didst  loose  the  powers 
Born  of  the  opiate  breath  of  autumn  flowers, 

And  with  thine  own  cool  hand  assuaged  my  brow; 

Wherefore,  I  pray  thee,  keep  not  from  me  now, 
For  I  am  summer,  and  thou  art  her  showers." 


282  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

UNUTTERABLE 


By  H.  F.  Page. 


The  twilight  of  a  second  Sabbath  eve 

Dies  slowly  from  thy  tomb. 
Dim  pines  that  moan,  dusk-shapes  that  grieve 

Bend  spectral  in  the  gloom. 

Heaven  lowers  dark  above  without  a  star. 

The  chill  October  rain 
Sobs  ceaselessly  'niid  gusts  that  jar 

The  night  with  throes  of  pain. 

Spray-beatings  these  from  off  the  sunless  shore 

Of  sorrow's  troubled  deep, 
O'er  whose  far  silence,  evermore 

Grief  broods,  but  can  not  weep! 


Note.— Written  the  second  Sunday  after  the  death  of  Mr.  McNeill. 
Editor. 


John  Charles  McNeill  283 

AN  INARTICULATE  OBITUARY 


By  R.  L.  Gray,  in  Raleigh  News  and  Observer. 


The  man  who  writes  these  lines  knew  John  Charles 
McNeill.  He  not  only  knew  what  he  wrote  but  he  saw 
him  write.  He  has  even  written  about  the  same  things 
McNeill  did— and  wondered  afterwards  why  he  did  not 
write  them  as  he  did.  Yet  the  quality  that  baffled  per- 
ception, that  astonished  with  its  simplicity  and  amazed 
with  its  insight,  was  so  near  akin  to  genius  as  to  leave  to 
his  friends  no  door  to  envy.  McNeill,  who  was  so  gener- 
ous in  praise— and  so  fond  of  it— commanded  affection 
as  well  as  admiration  because  he  was  in  a  class  to  him- 
self in  what  he  did  and  because,  in  what  he  was,  he  was 
in  the  great  class  that  puts  on  no  airs,  that  is  easily  made 
glad,  and  is  not  ashamed  to  laugh. 

Knowing  the  man,  the  fact  that  he  is  dead  makes  one 
want  to  throw  up  his  hands  and  surrender  with  a  shrug. 
Some  one  asked  me  to  write  something  about  him.  I 
replied  that  I  should  not  write  a  line,  in  the  face  of  the 
fact.     Yet  the  line  has  been  written,  obscure  as  it  is,  and 

from  the  heart. 

If  you  would  know  the  heart  of  McNeill— and  it  is 
worth  knowing— read  his  songs.  In  them  you  will  find 
much  that  is  commonplace.  In  them  you  will  find- 
occasionally— the  record  of  a  man  who  was  driving  a 
talent.  But  among  them,  you  will  find,  also,  much  that 
is  golden,  much  that  is  fixed  with  the  transient  quality 
of  genius,  much  to  make  the  heart  to  beat  and  to  cause 
the  soul  to  wonder.  When  McNeill  wrote  things  at  his 
best,  they  were  so  exquisite,  so  well  fashioned  in  the 
mould  of  perfection,  that  those  who  know  the  instilled 
fatalism  of  the  East  were  more  than  half  prepared  for 


284  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

the  catastrophe.  The  gods  are  jealous  of  their  own.  One 
felt  that,  in  the  expression  of  himself,  McNeill  was  en- 
dangering the  life  that  he  so  well  loved,  and  the  life  that 
so  instinctively  loved  him. 

All  that  does  not  matter  much  to  the  people  who  did 
not  know  McNeill — long,  bluff,  hearty  Scotchman,  per- 
petuating in  his  openness  and  merriment  some  tragic 
Irish  strain.  By  the  people  at  large  it  was  as  a  poet 
that  he  must  be  judged  and  not  as  the  man  who  lived 
poetry  even  when  he  did  not  write  it.  I  remember  his 
going  to  a  circus  and  being  lost  in  the  contemplation 
of  a  man  and  the  gnu !  I  remember  him  again,  the  de- 
tails of  a  political  speaking  in  his  head,  traveling  with  a 
politician  along  a  dusty  September  road  and  falling  into 
silence  as  we  rode  and  livened  the  way  with  jests.  And 
I  remember  so  vividly  reading  afterwards  what  we  had 
seen  without  knowing  it: 

"And  in  deserted  churchyard  places 
Dwarf  apples  smile  with  sunburnt  faces." 

I  remember  again,  on  one  of  the  hills  that  look  out 
towards  the  infinity  of  other  hills,  pausing  with  him  a 
moment  or  so  before  we  struck  the  trail  back  to  the  train 
and  the  writing  of  a  "story"  on  the  back  of  a  seat,  and  to 
have  seen  later : 

"Hills,  wrapped  in  gray,  standing  along  the  west; 

Clouds,  dimly  lighted,  gathering  slowly, 
The  star  of  peace  at  watch  above  the  crest — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy! 
Vv'e  know,  0  Lord,  so  little  what  is  best; 

Wingless,  we  move  so  lowly; 
But  in  thy  calm  all-knowledge  let  us  rest — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy!" 

He,  living,  knew  that  "names  and  knowledge,  idle 
breed  of  breath,  and  cant  and  creed,  the  progeny  of 
strife : 


John  Charles  McNeill  285 

"Shrink  trembling  from  the  cold,  clear  eye  of  death, 
And  learn  too  late  why  dying  lips  can  smile : 
That  goodness  is  the  only  creed  worth  while." 

We  know,  also,  how  : 

"The  Sun  swings  farther  toward  his  love,  the  South, 
To  kiss  her  glowing  mouth ; 

And  Death,  who  steals  among  thy  purpling  bowers, 
Is  deeply  hid  in  flowers." 

We  know,  also,  that  "beneath  thy  queen's  attire,  woven 
of  blood  and  fire,  beneath  the  golden  glory  of  thy 
charm — 

"Thy  mother  heart  beats  warm, 
And  if,  mayhap,  a  wandering  child  of  thee, 
Weary  of  land  and  sea, 

Should  turn  him  homeward  from  his  dreamer's  quest 
To  sob  upon  thy  breast, 

Thine  arm  would  fold  him  tenderly,  to  prove, 
How  thine  eyes  brimmed  with  love, 
And  thy  dear  hand,  with  all  a  mother's  care, 
Would  rest  upon  his  hair." 

Nor  would  one  forget,  -down  on  the  Lumber  River" 
where  *  *  *  "all  the  swamp  lies  hushed  about,  you  sun- 
burnt boys" ;  that  never  did  he  cease  to  share— 

"Your  hardships  and  your  joys, 
Robust,   rough-spoken,  gentle-hearted, 
Sunburnt  boys ! " 

We  might  explain  it  all  by  saying  that  McNeill  was  a 
poet  and  that  poets  die  young.  That  does  not  compen- 
sate, for  he  was  so  much  more  than  a  poet.  He  had  the 
love  of  the  naturalist  for  nature— and  for  men.  He  was 
of  no  cult,  no  creed,  no  class.  There  was  that  in  his 
great,  simple  heart,  in  his  magnificent  impertinence,  in 
his  out-spoken  love  that  was  all-compelling.  Women  he 
adored,  with  a  frankness  that  was  the  ultimate  of  rever- 
ence.    To  men  he  was  not  ashamed  to  express  affection. 


286  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

For  life  he  was  not  afraid  to  admit  his  passion.  In  him 
was  the  mixture  of  joy  and  sadness  that  seems  to  mark 
the  resentment  of  the  poet  against  the  passing  of  life. 
In  him,  too,  was  the  true  poet's  contempt  of  all  except 
feeling.  He  could  come  without  a  coat  to  town  and 
borrow  one  to  cover  his  dress  garments  when  he  gave 
away  the  Patterson  Cup — from  a  keeper  of  a  haberdash- 
ery whom  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  was  the  first  to 
hear  the  birds  in  the  springtime,  and  there  was  no  bird 
he  could  not  imitate.  With  men  he  was  wholesome  and 
clean  and  robust ;  with  women  he  was  romantic  and  ten- 
der and  obeisant.  To  his  work  he  bowed  as  before  a 
Goddess — who  could  not  be  appeased. 

I  remember  how  for  a  moment  he  thought  he  had 
gained  her  favor  when  he  gave  to  me  the  words  of  that 
exquisite  lyric,  "Love,  should  I  set  my  heart  upon  a 
crown/'  and  I  have  thought  since  that  there  he  wrote 
most  truly  of  himself — gay,  loving  and  sad,  stirred  with 
ambition,  seeking  truth  and  dazzled  away  from  the 
search  with  the  joy  and  beauty  that  he  distilled  impar- 
tially from  the  smoke  of  a  city  or  the  early  dews  of 
country  life : 

"How  teasing  truth  a  thousand  faces  claims, 
As  in  a  broken  mirror, 
And  what  a  father  died  for  in  the  flames 
His  own  son  scorns  as  error; 

How  even  they  whose  hearts  were  sweet  with  song 

Must  quaff  oblivion's  potion, 
And  soon  or  late  their  sails  be  lost  along 

ihe  all-surrounding  ocean: 

Oh,  ask  me  not  the  haven  of  our  ships, 

Nor  what  flag  floats  above  you ! 
I  hold  you  close,  I  kiss  your  sweet,  sweet  lips, 

And  love  you,  love  you,  love  you ! " 


John  Charles  McNeill  287 

I  quote  from  memory  and  McNeill  wrote  better  poems. 
He  gave  more  promise  in  three  years  of  work  than  the 
literature  of  the  State  has  evidenced  in  three  generations. 
What  he  sang,  sang  itself;  and  when  he  tried  to  sing 
otherwise  he  played  a  broken  lute.  In  his  untimely 
death — in  his  irritating  death — the  State  loses  one  who 
was  beginning  to  show  that  the  song  of  its  cotton  mills 
was  the  outer  expression  of  the  song  in  the  hearts  of  a 
people  who  loved  truth  and  were  drunk,  if  inarticulate, 
with  beauty.  He  was  the  spokesman  for  the  silent 
rhymes  of  rough  lives  and  soft  hearts.  There  was  a 
touch  of  Burns  about  him,  and  just  a  hint  of  Byron. 
Those  in  the  State  who  have  a  brief  for  a  literature  that 
is  mostly  made  out  of  hope  have  in  his  death  a  quarrel 
with  fate. 

But  those  who  knew  the  poetry  of  his  character,  as 
distinguished  from  the  melody  of  his  lines  have, — in  the 
moment  of  pity  and  of  sorrow  for  the  passing  of  a  man 
who  had  wooed  and  won  the  favor  of  life  like  a  preco- 
cious lover — a  grief  that  is  forced  to  embrace  hope  in  lieu 
of  understanding. 


288  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL— SOME  REMINISCENCES 


By  H.  F.  Page. 


When  I  entered  college  in  1897,  Mr.  McNeill  was  in 
his  senior  year,  and  was  also  serving  as  Instructor  in  the 
Department  of  English.  While  a  freshman,  therefore, 
it  was  niy  privilege  to  come  in  touch  with  him  both  as 
fellow  student  and  also  as  teacher.  This  twofold  ac- 
quaintance I  shall  always  remember  as  one  of  the  rare 
privileges  of  my  life. 

At  the  opening  of  the  session  I  first  met  him  in  the 
old  dormitory.  Here  our  associations  began.  His 
room  was  second  door  opposite  mine  on  the  fourth  floor. 
Naturally  we  were  thrown  very  much  together  during 
the  year,  and  an  opportunity  was  thus  afforded  me  for 
catching  glimpses  of  his  personality  from  a  standpoint 
especially  interesting,  as  every  old  student  of  the  college 
who  is  acquainted  with  life  in  the  dormitory  is  aware. 

That  he  was  a  favorite  among  his  fellow  students  I,  at 
once,  recognized.  His  congeniality  and  fine  sense  of 
humor  attracted  every  one.  Unassuming,  modest,  mag- 
netic in  manner,  he  moved  among  us  with  that  rare  per- 
sonal bearing,  in  the  presence  of  which  every  one  feels 
at  perfect  ease.  His  fellow  students  knew  and  recog- 
nized his  genius,  but,  if  I  mistake  not,  they  appreciated 
the  charms  of  his  personality  more.  His  most  wonder- 
ful capacity  for  association  completely  ignored  the  ordi- 
nary lines  of  separation  in  college  life.  To  put  it  in 
colloquial  phrase  lie  was,  in  the  truest  sense,  "one  of  all 
the  boys." 

These  elements,  found  so  happily  blended  in  the  char- 
acter of  Mr.  McNeill,  are  nevertheless  associated  oft-times 
with  peculiar  susceptibility  to  danger,  and  sometimes  it 


John  Charles  McNeill  289 

is  the  case,  and  most  pathetically  so,  that  the  very  free- 
heartedness  of  a  noble  nature,  unsuspectingly  at  first, 
yields  up  the  strategic  point  to  its  own  security.  This 
some  of  us  who  were  with  Mr.  McNeill  in  college  saw, 
but  not  as  we  see  it  now,  ten  years  after. 

Before  his  class  Mr.  McNeill  lost  nothing  of  his  mag- 
netic manner.  It  was  rather  intensified;  especially  so 
when  presenting  one  of  his  favorite  authors.  He  was 
naturally  more  sympathetic  than  critical  in  his  discus- 
sions. He  felt  the  inner  beauty  and  soul  of  poetry  and 
endeavored  to  imbue  the  mind  of  the  student  with  some- 
thing of  the  same  appreciation.  Most  vividly  I  recall 
his  interpretations  of  Poe,  whose  ideals  in  poetic  form 
enter  so  largely  into  his  own  work.  Poe  was  his  model 
in  form,  Burns  his  ideal  in  sentiment.  Since  Songs, 
Merry  and  Sad  have  been  given  to  us,  I  have  come  to 
look  upon  this  little  volume  of  lyric  gems  as  a  natural 
sequel  to  those  class  room  lectures  to  which  it  was  my 
delightful  privilege  to  listen. 

His  manner  as  a  teacher  was  simple,  direct,  forceful. 
His  vein  of  quaint,  elusive  humor  appeared  here  at  great- 
est advantage.  Tactfully  and  yet  without  the  least  indi 
cation  of  studied  effort  he  held  the  attention  of  his  class. 
His  low,  rich  voice — marvelously  musical — possessed  a 
holding  power  such  as  is  rarely  met.  To  me  this  was 
the  most  remarkable  of  his  personal  charms.  It  was  a 
voice  wonderfully  deep,  luringly  mellow,  with  soft  minor 
modulations— such  a  voice  as  we  naturally  associate 
with  the  poet.  And  many  times  since  his  death  to  others, 
doubtless,  as  well  as  to  myself,  has  recurred  the  lament 
of  Tennyson — 

aO,  for  *  *  *  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still!"' 

To  members  of  his  class  Mr.  McNeill  was  always  ready 
to  give  help.     And  he  gave  it  with  such  freedom  and 


290  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

ease  of  manner  that  it  seemed  more  a  pleasure  than  a 
task.  I  remember  how,  one  evening  after  I  had  handed 
in  a  composition,  he  came  into  my  room  to  go  over  it 
with  me  and  offer  most  helpful  criticisms  and  sugges- 
tions. This  is  only  one  of  the  many  instances  of  assist- 
ance for  which  I  am  indebted  to  him  as  a  student.  And 
doubtless  many  others,  who  were  members  of  his  classes 
that  year  and  the  year  following,  oft-times  since  his 
death,  have  in  like  manner  recalled  his  gentle,  pains- 
taking attitude  toward  their  blundering  efforts,  and  have 
blessed  his  memory  as  teacher. 

After  he  left  Wake  Forest,  we  met  but  two  or  three 
times.  During  our  last  talk  together,  incidentally  our 
conversation  turned  on  the  unaccomplished  in  Southern 
literature.  He  said  that  the  life  of  our  people  is  a  sin- 
cere life,  remarkable  not  so  much  for  the  grandeur  of  its 
themes  as  for  their  variety  and  richness,  especially  in 
the  lyrical  vein. 

This  was  his  first  vision  of  his  kingdom  as  a  Doet. 
That  he  was  true  to  the  vision  the  work  he  has  left  with 
us  is  sufficient  indication.  What  other  visions  might 
have  been  his  to  glimpse  and  to  bring  ultimately  into 
realization,  had  he  remained  with  us,  we  can  only 
vaguely  conjecture.  If  it  be  true  that  the  songs  he  has 
given  us  are  only  the  prelude  to  a  richer  depth  of  melody 
and  harmony  which  fate  has  so  untimely  shut  away  from 
us,  how  great  is  our  loss!  Other  singers  will  arise  to 
sing,  but  however  sweet  the  melody  of  their  music,  still 
over  all  will  forever  brood  the  melancholy  of  this  un- 
finished symphony.  Yet  we  will  hope  that  somewhere 
in  a  realm  where  mortal  frailties  are  forgiven — forgot- 
ten, his  poet-soul,  glory-rapt,  stands  in  the  presence  of 

"A  beauty  that  ne'er  was  on  land  or  sea," 

and  that  we,  too,  ere  long  shall  behold — with  him. 


John  Charles  McNeill  291 


SUNBURNT  BOYS 


By  J.  C.  M. 


[Published  by  the  kind  permission  of  the  printers,  Stone  &  Barringer.  ] 

Down  on  the  Lumber  River, 

Where  the  eddies  ripple  cool, 
Your  boat,  I  know,  glides  stealthily 

About  some  shady  pool. 
The  summer's  heats  have  lulled  asleep 

The  fish -hawk's  chattering  noise, 
And  all  the  swamp  lies  hushed  about 

You  sunburnt  boys. 

You  see  the  minnow's  waves  that  rock 

The  cradled  lily  leaves. 
From  a  far  field  some  farmer's  song, 

Singing  among  his  sheaves, 
Comes  mellow  to  you  where  you  sit, 

Each  man  with  boatman's  poise, 
There,  in  the  shimmering  water-lights, 

You  sunburnt  boys. 

I  know  your  haunts :  each  quarly  bole 

That  guards  the  water-side, 
Each  tuft  of  flags  and  rushes  where 

The  river  reptiles  hide, 
Each  dimpling  nook  wherein  the  bass 

His  eager  life  employs 
Until  he  dies — the  captive  of 

You  sunburnt  boys. 


292  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

You  will  not — will  you? — soon  forget 

When  I  was  one  of  you, 
Nor  love  me  less  that  time  has  borne 

My  craft  to  currents  new; 
Nor  shall  I  ever  cease  to  share 

Your  hardships  and  your  joys, 
Robust,  rough-spoken,  gentle-hearted 

Sunburnt  boys! 


John  Charles  McNeill  293 

THE  SUNBURNT  BOYS 


By  One  of  the  Sunburnt  Boys. 


O,  Luinbee  River,  haunts  of  nature  and  sunburnt  boys, 
come  and  mourn  with  us!  Our  companion  has  de- 
parted. Not  our  scholar,  not  our  poet,  but  our  robust, 
rough  spoken,  gentle-hearted  Sunburnt  Boy, — the  boy 
who  was  reared  with  us  in  the  neighborhood  of  Riverton, 
in  his  much-loved  home,  which  looks  out  towards  the 
lands  of  the  rising  sun  and  now  sheds  its  tears  among 
the  tranquil  waters  of  the  Luinbee  River.  Our  friend, 
our  loved  one,  our  brother,  has  gone  to  the  blessed  lands 
of  the  hereafter.  Is  it  so?  Is  it  possible  that  a  Christmas 
has  passed  without  his  presence  and  his  voice? 

Oh !  but  summer  is  drawing  near.  The  birds  will 
soon  be  heard  as  they  sing  in  the  trees  that  shade  his 
country  home  as  though  they  make  the  music  for  his  pen. 
The  lazy  Lawrence  will  soon  be  seen  on  the  house  tops 
and  across  the  furrowed  land.  The  trout  will  begin  to 
make  their  beds  among  the  roots  of  the  old  cypress  tree 
that  juts  out  over  deep  water  at  Cypress  Bend.  The 
white  spot  on  the  minnow's  head  will  soon  be  seen  as  he 
glides  lazily  amid  the  bonnets.  Here  is  the  fishing  pole, 
and  here  is  the  bait-gourd,  here  is  the  broken  handled  hoe 
that  digs  the  earth-worms,  but  can  it  be  true  that  the 
owner  has  resigned  his  place  among  us  boys  for  a  hap- 
pier home  on  high?  Oh !  that  memory  might  fail  us  and 
his  name  might  be  heard  no  more,  but  joy  is  mingled 
with  our  sorrows  and  what  pleasure  it  gives  to  know  that 
although  he  has  departed,  yet  he  lives  in  his  songs,  merry 
to  some  but  sad  to  us.  In  his  poem,  "Sunburnt  Boys," 
he  asks  us  not  to  forget  him.    How  can  he  be  forgotten? 

4 


294  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

His  place  has  been  established,  never  to  be  taken  away. 
Lumbee  River,  you  will  not  forget  your  son.  The  pines 
of  the  forest  will  ever  grieve  for  the  absent  one,  and 
sunburnt  boys,  who  will  be  our  leader? 

But  what  of  this?  Wherein  does  this  concern  others 
than  the  sunburnt  boys  and  neighborhood  in  which  we 
were  reared?  Let  us  draw  our  thoughts  from  the  sad 
present  and  the  blighted  pleasures  of  the  future  and 
glance  backward  to  some  of  the  incidents  of  his  merry 
youth,  and  see  if  we  were  not  indeed  a  group  of  jolly 
sunburnt  boys. 

As  the  spring  would  draw  near  and  the  frost  would 
give  way  to  a  cold  and  chilling  dew,  we  would  shed  our 
shoes  and  stockings  as  a  snake  deserts  his  skin.  The 
first  warm  days  in  March  was  the  time  set  to  take  our 
iirst  plunge  in  the  Lumbee.  From  that  time  on  until 
the  last  of  September  the  old  paths  along  the  banks  were 
made  fresh,  after  the  winter's  snow,  by  the  sunburnt 
boys.  The  budding  of  the  hickory  and  the  nightly 
shrieks  of  the  whippoorwill  reminded  us  that  the  time 
had  come  to  set  our  hooks  at  night  for  the  ahorny  tribe," 
as  we  called  the  cat-fish.  We  were  not  considered  tough 
each  spring  until  we  had  taken  a  barefoot  race  across 
the  broom  straw  stubble,  where  it  had  been  burnt  and 
had  just  begun  to  sprout  up  again.  But  most  of  the 
summer,  while  we  were  not  "holding  off  the  calf,"  fixing 
up  the  pig  pen,  or  plowing  a  mule,  was  spent  in  our 
boats  on  the  surface  of  the  old  Luinbee's  waters.  The 
best  boat  we  had  was  The  Wild  Irishman,  made  by 
Charles  himself.  In  the  water  we  were  a  group  of  am- 
bitious youths,  each  one  trying  to  out-do  his  fellows  in 
running,  jumping,  diving,  swimming,  "ducking,"  and 
rowing.  In  each  of  these  contests  we  had  to  give  way 
to  the  long  strides  of  Charles,  the  nimble  leap  of  Charles's 


John  Charles  McNeill  295 

limbs,  the  long,  deep  plunges  of  Charles's  diving,  the 
rapid  strokes  of  Charles's  swimming  and  rowing. 

But  wherein  did  the  poet  differ  from  the  rest  of  us 
sunburnt  boys?  He  expressed  in  words  what  we,  too, 
saw  and  felt  but  could  not  tell.  When  he  went  to  the 
field  to  plow  he  always  carried  a  little  pocket  edition  of 
Shakespeare  or  some  other  favorite  writer  with  him,  and 
in  this  way  did  he  take  advantage  of  the  shade  of  the 
persimmon  trees  at  the  farther  end  of  the  field.  He  had 
a  quiet  disposition  and  sometimes,  while  Ave  realized  his 
presence,  yet  to  him  he  was  all  alone.  In  the  woods  he 
always  kept  his  eyes  open  to  the  beauties  of  nature  and 
taught  us  boys  to  be  students  of  nature.  But  we  can 
understand  this  more  fully  by  reading  his  songs. 

On  his  return  from  college  after  his  first  year  we  felt 
a  little  distant  when  we  saw  his  fair  face;  he  was  the 
first  of  us  to  go  to  college,  and  had  won  the  gold  medal, 
which  he  wore.  We  felt  that  he  would  not  be  the  same 
Charles  after  he  had  been  made  assistant  in  English  his 
first  year ;  but  our  clouded  brows  soon  became  wreathed 
in  smiles  when  we  saw  him  go  to  the  closet  under  the 
staircase  and  pull  out  his  old  last  summer's  trousers  and 
sunshade  hat.  His  first  question  was,  "How's  the  river, 
boys?     How's  the  river?" 

His  greatest  pleasure  was  to  see  the  fair  complexion 
made  by  the  dense  shade  of  the  campus  at  old  Wake  For- 
est College  turn  to  the  tan  of  his  sunburnt  companions. 

Thus  he  was  the  same  Charles  throughout  his  short 
life. 

With  all  honors  possible  bestowed  upon  him  at  Wake 
Forest,  and  during  his  brilliant  career  of  literary  achieve- 
ment, he  was  always  one  of  us ;  even  last  summer  he  was 
just  a  grown-up,  blue-eyed,  curly-headed,  sunburnt  boy. 


296  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

And  oh,  the  consolation  in  knowing  that  he  came  back 
to  us  to  die  in  his  own  little  room  next  to  the  roof.  Five 
or  six  of  the  boys  had  the  sad  pleasure  of  being  with  him 
during  his  last  illness,  and  as  they  sat  by  his  bed  he 
would  say,  "Pull  back  the  curtains,  boys,  so  that  I  may 
see  the  wind  in  the  trees  and  glimpse  the  last  rays  of  the 
autumn  sundown.77 

Charles,  your  presence  will  ever  be  with  us,  even  when 
we  are  old  men  you  will  be  young,  for  you  did  not  live  to 
be  old. 


John  Charles  McNeill  297 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL  AS  THE  COLLEGE  JOURNALIST 


For  one  to  fully  realize  what  interest  Mr.  McNeill  took 
in  college  journalism,  let  him  search  the  pages  of  The 
Student,  published  during  the  time  he  was  in  college. 
As  editor  of  The  Student  for  two  years,  he  displayed 
wonderful  talent  as  an  editorial  writer.  His  editorials 
are  written  well  and  concisely — many  of  them  on  cur- 
rent events.  These  show  truly  the  man's  independent 
spirit  and  his  well  taken  and  sane  view-points. 

Below  we  give  extracts  from  three  of  his  editorials  and 
two  of  his  poems,  which  were  published  in  The  Student  : 

LEGENDARY  LORE  IN  NORTH   CAROLINA 

[Published  in  November,  1898.] 
Cherished  tradition  is  the  cradle  of  patriotism;  it  is  more  inspiring 
even  than  a  glorious  history,  because  it  is  more  alive.  We  love  the  de- 
caying old  homestead  with  its  memories  of  childhood  more  than  a  glar- 
ing, newly-painted  residence.  So  we  love  the  country  where  our  fathers 
lived  and  hugged  their  foolish  superstitions  and  met  with  their  wonder- 
ful adventures  more  than  the  country  where  they  stood  up  stiff  and  life- 
less, covered  with  dates  and  statistics,  as  they  do  in  history.  Tradition 
gives  us  the  inner  life  of  the  people. 

North  Carolina  is  by  no  means  poor  in  legendary  lore.  In  the  east 
there  is  a  nest  of  stories  about  Virginia  Dare,  and  about  Bluebeard  and 
his  fellows;  in  the  west  the  doings  of  the  remarkable  schoolmaster  Ney, 
of  the  far-famed  moonshiners,  and  of  certain  cave-dwellers  are  familiar 
in  every  household.  The  tour  of  Lafayette  through  the  State  is  well 
known  in  a  historical  way,  but  every  year  we  are  losing  the  little  inci- 
dents which  would  make  that  tour  live  forever  at  our  firesides.  We 
have  legends  of  the  Indians,  of  the  Croatans,  of  the  heterogeneous  immi- 
grants who  first  settled  North  Carolina,  of  the  Regular  period,  of  the 
Revolution,  of  the  ways  of  slavery,  and  of  the  Civil  War. 


EXTRACT  FROM  EDITORIAL  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  STUDENT. 

JUNE,  1898 

[In  answering  the  taunts  of  Dr.  Broughton  against  base-ball,  Mr.  McNeill  replied  in 
an  editorial,  an  extract  of  which  is  given.] 

Speaking  of  college  base-ball:  *  *  *  The  ball-player  is  no  more  re- 
sponsible for  the  gambling  than  is  the  farmer  who  makes  corn  responsible 
for  the  drunkard. 


298  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

*  *  *  Some  kind  of  physical  exercise  is  needed  in  college.  Pale-faced, 
haggard  students,  with  sunken  chests  and  knock-knees,  whose  hollow 
voices  remind  one  of  the  well-known  hymn,  "Hark  from  the  tomb  the 
doleful  sound,"  are  not  the  men  to  hand  on  to  posterity  the  sturdy  man- 
hood of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  Their  brains  like  their  bodies  will  soon 
be  infected  with  the  dry  rot:  and  after  this  dry  rot  is  allowed  to  proceed 
for  four  years,  it  is  unlikely  that  the  refreshing  showers  of  active  life 
will  ever  be  able  to  moisten  and  restore  it  to  fertility.  But  unpleasant 
exercise  is  impossible:  men  will  not  indulge  in  it,  and  if  they  would,  the 
laws  of  hygiene  pronounce  it  not  conducive  to  health.  On  the  other 
hand,  brutal  exercise  should  be  allowed  to  sleep  with  the  dark  ages. 
The  golden  mean,  a  game  both  pleasant  and  gentlemanly,  is  base-ball. 
And  so  the  Faculty  of  Wake  Forest  College,  as  well  as  those  of  nine- 
tenths  of  other  American  colleges,  in  the  light  of  their  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  situation,  not  only  permit  ball  playing,  but  encourage  it  in 
every  way  they  can. 

Why,  then,  are  there  so  many  self -constituted  dictators  on  a  subject 
which  most  of  them  imperfectly  understand?  There  are  two  answers: 
First,  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  human  nature  that  men  talk  more  loudly 
about  things  of  which  they  have  only  a  smattering  knowledge  than  about 
those  which  they  have  thoroughly  investigated.  The  great  Sunday  school 
speaker  is  he  who  goes  to  Sunday  school  only  when  he  is  to  speak;  the 
eloquent  adviser  of  farmers  is  the  city-bred  man.  The  second  answer  is 
better  given  by  illustration.  Some  still  night,  for  example,  kick  your 
dog  and  make  him  yelp.  Every  cur  in  the  community  will  at  once 
respond,  the  alarm  will  spread,  and  during  the  remainder  of  the  night 
the  baying  of  watchdogs  will  come  and  go  like  the  ebb  and  flow  of  a 
tide.  Or  if  Smith's  rooster  happens  to  crow,  each  neighboring  rooster 
will  pass  it  on,  until  there  is  crowing  from  Greenland  to  Cape  Horn. 
So  everything  is  quiet  on  this  base-ball  question,  when  Dr.  Broughton, 
eagerly  seeking  for  something  to  say,  wanders  far  from  his  subject  in 
order  to  attack  athletics,  and  by  so  doing  gives  rise  to  phenomena  simi- 
lar to  those  above  described.  Do  not  understand  this  as  a  reflection 
upon  the  opponents  of  base-ball.  They  are  sincere  gentlemen.  It  is 
merely  a  little  observation  that  may  be  of  interest  to  the  evolutionist. 

In  one  case,  at  least,  physical  activity  and  Christian  character  dwell 
together — in  our  present  ball  team. 


DULL  AND  HYPOCRITICAL  PREACHERS 

[Published  in  the  October  Number,  1898  ] 

Preachers   enjoy  many  privileges  which   are   denied  to  laymen,   and 

rightly  so.     They  fill  in  a  measure  the  position  of  both  prophet  and 

priest — God's  representative  to  us  and  our  representative  to  God — the 

highest  position  attainable  by  man.     And  for  that  reason  they  should 


John  Charles  McNeill  299 

as  far  as  possible  be  men  of  tact  and  talent,  and  always  profoundly 
religious.  Our  colleges  furnish  them  free  tuition,  and  our  boards  of 
education  lend  them  money  in  order  to  have  an  educated  clergy.  But 
this,  in  common  with  most  other  charities,  suffers  abuse.  While  many 
seemingly  dull  students  turn  out  useful  and  able  men,  still  it  is  some- 
times true  that  hopeless  dullards  place  themselves  upon  the  hands  of  the 
colleges  to  be  dragged  along  for  a  year  or  two,  and  are  then  turned  out 
as  leaders  among  men.  The  name  given  them  by  the  shrewd  small  boy, 
"softies,"  indicates  the  amount  of  their  influence  on  the  world.  But 
there  is  a  far  greater  abuse  than  this,  where  hypocrites  sail  under  the 
colors  of  the  church  merely  for  the  financial  and  other  advantages  they 
get  from  such  a  course.  You  find  the  names  of  ministerial  students  on 
our  college  registers  who  are  now  teachers,  lawyers,  dentists,  and  the 
like.     "Will  a  man  rob  God?"     Indeed,  it  seems  so. 

But  what  is  the  remedy  for  this  evil?  To  destroy  the  tares  is  to 
destroy  more  or  less  of  the  full-grained  wheat.  It  would  be  unwise, 
unbenevolent,  and  unchristian  to  refuse  aid  to  sincere  ministerial  stu- 
dents on  account  of  the  hypocrites  for  whom  they  are  in  no  wise  respon- 
sible. The  churches  must  look  out  for  themselves,  and  not  attribute 
perfection  to  all  who  wear  "preacher  coats."  They  must  be  careful  in 
calling  pastors;  get  only  consecrated,  reasonably  gifted  men,  and  so  force 
all  others  out  of  the  ministry.  When  a  congregation  can  say  of  their 
pastor  that  he  is  a  good  man  but  a  poor  preacher,  or  a  fine  preacher 
but  a  hypocirte,  that  congregation  is  in  a  bad  way.  Every  pastor  ought 
to  be  both  a  thoroughly  good  man  and  a  reasonably  good  preacher.  A 
dullard  is  repulsive  to  intelligent  men ;  and  a  hypocrite  is,  as  Bacon  says, 
"a  coward  toward  men,  but  brave  toward  God."     Deliver  us  from  both! 


YOUTH   FAREWELL 

[Published  in  December  Student,  1897. 

Farewell,  my  boyhood  days! 

Sadly  we  part. 
Time  bears  to  unknown  ways 

My  trembling  heart; 
And  as  we  swiftly  fly, 
I  strain  with  dimming  eye 
In  vain  to  trace 
The  fading  features  of  thy  face. 

Sadly  we  part. 

Full  many  a  joyous  time 

Had  we  together, 
In  autumn's  dreamy  clime, 
In  summer's  sultry  weather. 


300  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

How  often  hoped,  how  often  built  in  air, 
And  climbed  to  fame  upon  a  golden  stair! 
But  now  'tis  o'er, 
Thou  com'st  no  more;  no  more 
We'll  be  together. 

Would  we  might  meet  again, 

Thou  youth  once  mine! 
To  follow  in  the  ways  of  men, 
To  roam  in  open  field  or  fen, 

Thy  hand  in  mine, 
Far  better  than  alone  to  soar 
From  height  to  height  forevermore, 
O  youth  once  mine! 

But  could  we  ever  stay 

Here  side  by  side, 
Romping  like  birds  in  May 

Far,  far  and  wide, 
No  smiling  heaven  could  draw  my  heart 
With  thee  and  thy  glad  self  to  part. 
Therefore,  dead  youth,  calmly  to-day, 

But  sadly,  we  part. 


SPIRITS  OF  YULE 

[Published  in  the  January  Student,  1898.] 

Druid  of  the  mystic  days, 

I  see  thee  in  the  light 
That  shimmers  from  the  Yule-tide  blaze 

This  holy  night! 

A  thousand  years  reach  out  to  thee 
Their  white  and  glossy  hands, 

And  bind  a  thousand  realms  to  thee 
With  golden  bands. 

Far  over  the  silent,  frost-white  fields, 

And  forest  wild  and  bare, 
From  where  the  sounding  ocean  yields 

Its  secrets  rare, 

Through  earth  and  air  and  steel-gray  sky, 
Thine  unheard  voice  hath  spread, — 

A  voice  comes  from  lands  unknown, — 
Voice  of  the  dead. 


John  Charles  McNeill  301 

O  Spirit  of  the  Beautiful, 

Dwell  with  mankind! 
Let  us  be  once  undutiful, 

Let  us  be  blind! 

In  all  this  cold  and  naked  life 

Grant  us,  we  pray,  one  night 
To  see  again  the  young  world  wrapt 

In  dreamland  light! 

Bring  us  the  childhood  of  the  past! 

Bring  us  its  mystery! 
Dethrone  proud  Science,  crush  his  crown 

Of  harsh  reality! 

Winds  from  the  wide,  still  northern  plains, 

Sing  wild,  wild  and  strong! 
Flame  from  the  dying  hearth,  sing  thou 

A  quiet  song! 

Druid  of  the  sacred  oak  and  mystic  mistletoe, 

Come  near  at  Christmastide, 
And  while  the  world  is  clothed  in  snow, 

With  us  abide. 


EDITORIAL  DEPARTMENT 


STAFF  EDITORS  : 
Dr.  J.  H.  GORRELL,  Faculty  Editor. 


EUZELIAN  SOCIETY. 

LEE  M.  WHITE Editor 

H.  J.  MASSEY Associate  Editor 


PHIL.OMATHESIAN  SOCIETY. 

EL.  E.  PEELE Editor 

C.  S.  BARNETT Associate  Editor 


LEE  B.  WEATHERS,  Business  Manager. 


EDITOR'S  PORTFOLIO 


LEE  M.  WHITE,  Editor 


John  Charles       ^n  the  death  of  Mr.  McNeill,  North  Caro- 
McNeill  lina  an(i  the  South  has  lost  one  of  her  most 

brilliant  men  of  letters.  The  "Robert 
Burns  of  the  Old  North  State"  is  with  us  no  more.  Wake 
Forest  weeps  for  her  son  whom  she  is  justly  proud  to 
claim.  Every  lover  of  the  beautiful,  of  poetry,  of  na- 
ture, feels  his  loss  keenly,  for  his  pen 

"Singing  the  songs  of  the  field  and  the  fen 
As  sang  the  lark;  as  sang  the  wren, 
Dreaming  of  songs  still  yet  unsung 
Lo!  The  silence  falls  on  heart  and  tongue." 

Mr.  McNeill,  as  year  by  year  passed  away,  commanded 
a  larger  band  of  followers,  and  then  to  have  been  taken 
at  the  time  when  he  was  coming  into  his  own.  But  yet 
we  have,  if  not  his  presence,  his  own  words  to  comfort 
us.  As  expressed  so  beautifully  by  one  of  our  North 
Carolina  poets: 

"As  leaf  by  leaf  I  sadly  turn 
These  pages  o'er, 
A  sweeter  thought  than  e'er  I've  caught 
From  them*  before 
Rises  to  comfort  me. 

Are  these  not  broken  lispings  of 

A  richer  theme 
Toward  which  thy  soul,  frail-bound, 

Didst  yearn  and  dream 

Till  one  should  set  it  free?" 


Editorial  Department  303 

Mr.  McNeill's  genius  is  remarkable  for  its  versatility. 
Herein  he  surpasses  his  contemporaries.      His  dialect 
poems,  his  serious,  and  quaint  humorous  stanzas  and 
couplets   have   each    to   themselves   a   distinct    charm. 
Throughout  all  his  poems  there  runs  that  native  grace 
and  freedom  of  expression,  that  "something"  which  only 
the  born  poet  possesses.     Even  the  most  casual  reader 
can  but  notice  what  a  completeness  of  workmanship  his 
poems  are.     His  was  a  natural  perfection  and  grace  of 
expression  which  even  our  Poe  would  have  praised. 

His  favorite  poet,  Burns,  seemed  to  be  his  ideal  as  re- 
gards his  less  serious  stanzas.  As  regards  his  other 
verses,  there  is  in  them  that  seriousness  which  probably 
his  love  for  Poe  had  engendered,  and  yet,  there  are  some 
of  his  poems  which  only  his  master  hand  could  have 

fashioned.  .       .. 

Strongly  embodied  in  his  poetry  is  the  love  of  life,  its 
many  beauties,  its  sorrows.  These  show  more  truly  than 
anything  else  the  man's  heart  attuned  to  the  very  clearest 
note  of  accord  with  Nature  and  her  God.  His  soul  was 
full  to  overflowing  with  life. 

"To  have  seen  the  sun  come  back,  to  have 
Seen  children  again  at  play- 
To  have  heard  the  thrush  when  the  woods  are  green 

Welcome  the  new-born  day, 
To  have  felt  the  soft  grass  cool  to  the  feet, 
To  have  smelt  earth's  incense,  heavenly  sweety 
To  have  shared  the  laughter  along  the  street. 

Yet  in  the  short  time  in  which  he  lived  he  seems  to 
have  drunk  deep  of  the  well  of  life.  But^  somewhere, 
with  all  these  blessings,  there  lurked  in  him  that  pre- 
monition, that  intangible  fancy  that  it  would  not  be  long. 

"Green  moss  will  creep 
Along  the  shady  graves  where  we  shall  sleep. 

Each  year  will  bring 

Another  brood  of  birds  to  nest  and  sing. 


304  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

At  dawn  will  go 

New  ploughmen  to  the  fields  we  used  to  know. 

Night  will  call  home 

The  hunter  from  the  hills  we  loved  to  roam. 

She  will  not  ask, 

The  milkmaid,  singing  softly  at  her  task, 

Nor  will  she  care 

To  know  if  I  were  brave  or  you  were  fair. 

No  one  will  think 

What  chalice  life  had  offered  us  to  drink, 

When  from  our  clay 

The  sun  comes  back  to  kiss  the  snow  away." 

Would  that  he  had  lived  so  that  he  could  have  more 
fully  realized  his  own  high  ambition ! 

"Would  that  I  might  live  a  thousand  careless  years, 
To  drink  each  cup  of  pleasure  thou  canst  give, 
And  learn  some  time  within  far-distant  days 
To  sing  in  thy  great  name  a  worthy  song." 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

BY  THE  FACULTY  EDITOE. 

I  have  been  requested  by  the  Editors  to  add  a  word  to 
what  has  already  been  written  in  praise  of  the  talented 
young  poet  to  whom  this  issue  of  The  Student  is  dedi- 
cated. What  I  write  must  be  in  the  form  of  personal 
reminiscence;  to  others  has  been  accorded  the  privilege 
of  critical  judgment. 

Mr.  McNeill  entered  the  Modern  Language  Depart- 
ment at  the  beginning  of  the  third  year  of  his  college 
course  and  remained  in  this  work  for  three  years,  com- 
pleting the  advanced  courses  in  French  and  German. 
His  work  in  the  first  year  classes  was  characterized  by 
thorough  conscientiousness  and  scholarly  care  and  ex- 
actness. Without  difficulty  he  won  and  retained  through- 
out the  first  place. 


Editorial  Department  305 

The  testing-time,  however,  for  all  students  of  language 
is  in  the  advanced  classes,  where  mastery  of  detail  must 
be  combined  with  true  literary  appreciation  in  order  to 
gain  the  highest  success.  It  is  just  at  this  point  that 
most  students  fail,  and  again  it  is  just  at  this  point  that 
the  faithful  teacher  experiences  either  the  humiliation  of 
wasted  energy  or  the  unspeakable  pleasure  of  seeing  his 
labors  adequately  rewarded. 

I  can  never  think  of  Mr.  McNeill's  participation  in  ad- 
vanced Modern  Language  work  without  being  reminded 
of  the  fine  words  put  by  Moliere  in  the  mouth  of  one 
of  his  characters :  "There  is  pleasure,  you  must  grant,  in 
working  for  persons  who  are  capable  of  appreciating  the 
delicacies  of  an  art,  who  are  fully  conscious  of  the  beau- 
ties of  a  work,  and  by  intelligent  approbations  reward 
you  for  your  toil.  Yes,  the  most  delightful  reward  pos- 
sible to  receive  for  what  you  have  done  is  to  see  your 
work  adequately  recognized  and  fostered  by  praise  that 
does  you  honor.  There  is  nothing,  in  my  opinion,  which 
pays  you  better  than  that  for  all  your  trouble,  and  intel- 
ligent applause  is  truly  the  most  exquisite  joy." 

Two  instances  are  sufficient  to  illustrate  what  I  wish 
to  say  in  this  connection.  During  the  year  that  Mr.  Mc- 
Neill was  a  member  of  my  Advanced  French  Class,  I 
made  bold  to  introduce  a  play  that  had  just  appeared 
with  great  eclat  upon  the  stage  of  Paris, — I  mean  Ros- 
tand's Cyrano  dc  Bergerac.  It  was  with  some  degree  of 
trepidation  that  I  awaited  the  result  of  this  innovation. 
But  it  was  not  long  in  declaring  itself.  McNeill,  with 
the  instinct  of  genius,  was  immediately  filled  with  enthu- 
siasm for  the  beauties  and  the  splendid  theatrical  effects 
of  the  piece;  to  this  enlightened  leader  the  whole  class 
responded  in  ready  sympathy,  and  the  study  of  the  mod- 
ern French  drama  was  during  that  year  (pardon  the 
alliteration)  a  succession  of  successes. 


306  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

Encouraged  by  such  results,  I  ventured  an  experiment 
(a  thing  I  rarely  do)  in  my  advanced  German  the  next 
year.  I  introduced  for  trial  a  little  prose  idyll — Roseg- 
ger's  Waldschulmeister,  &  pretty,  but,  I  thought,  some- 
what overrated  story.  The  result  was  as  I  had  expected. 
As  far  as  McNeill  was  concerned  the  piece  fell  flat.  He 
could  hardly  summon  up  enough  interest  to  fittingly 
prepare  the  daily  reading-lesson.  Sincerely  thankful 
when  this  book  was  finished,  I  introduced  the  class  at 
once  into  the  study  of  Heine's  poems.  McNeill  became 
a  transformed  man ;  not  satisfied  with  the  volume  of  ex- 
tracts, he  bought  a  copy  of  Heine's  Complete  Poems,  and 
for  two  months  the  volume  was  scarcely  out  of  his  hand. 
His  whole  heart  went  out  into  the  swTeet  and  tender 
lyrics  of  the  great  German  writer,  and  poet  with  poet  it 
was  love  at  first  sight. 

This  is  not  the  occasion  for  me  to  speak  of  the  close 
bonds  of  friendship  that  drew  me  to  John  Charles  Mc- 
Neill— of  his  genial  smile,  his  helpful  sympathy,  his 
abundant  store  of  the  most  delicious  humor,  fresh,  spark- 
ling, and  inexhaustible  as  an  ever  bubbling  fountain.  It 
is  fitting  to  state,  in  conclusion,  that  no  man  ever  loved 
his  Alma  Mater  more  than  he,  and  it  is  a  question 
whether  it  was  the  college  or  The  Student  that  was 
uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  Throughout  his  college 
course  he  was  a  constant  contributor  to  its  pages,  and 
during  his  editorship  (a  position  with  which  he  was  hon- 
ored for  two  years)  he  gave  to  the  magazine  the  best 
that  was  in  him — the  magnificent  outflow  of  youthful 
genius. 

At  the  time  when  the  Editors  contemplated  the  Lee 
Memorial  Issue  last  session,  Mr.  McNeill  was  requested 
to  contribute  a  poem.     To  this  request  he  readily  com- 


Editorial  Department  307 

plied  and  wrote  the  little  poem  which  appeared  at  the 
beginning  of  that  number — a  poem  full  of  devotion  to 
Lee  and  yet  mentioning  with  praise  that  other  great 
American,  Lincoln,  whom  the  South  honors  as  well  as 
the  North.  Accompanying  this  poem  was  the  following 
characteristic  letter,  which  I  transcribe  almost  in  full : 

Dec.  7,  1906. 

This  replies  to  your  request  received  to-day.  I  am  a  poor  judge  of  my 
stuff,  and  I  rely  on  you  to  "kill"  these  verses  if  they  will  not  hold  their 
own  with  the  other  material  in  The  Student.  I  am  pleased  to  know 
of  your  enthusiasm  and  that  you  are  all  trying  to  give  the  magazine  a 
new  toe-hold.  When  I  write  in  it  I  should  like  to  do  respectable  work, 
for  I  take  pride  in  the  fact  (I  think  it  is  a  fact)  that  I  am  the  only 
boy  who  was  ever  an  editor  of  The  Student  two  years  in  succession. 

Believe  me, 

Cordially  yours,  John  C.  McNeill. 


We,  the  editors  of  The  Student,  wish  to  thank  our 
contributors  for  the  articles  which  they  have  so  kindly 
written  for  us.  For  the  words  of  encouragement  and 
interest,  we  are  indebted  to  many. 

We  hope  that  this  memorial  of  our  poet  will  be  a  fit- 
ting tribute  to  his  memory  for  those  who  loved  and  ad- 
mired him,  for  those  who  will  yet  come  to  love  him. 


Notice. — The  Student  was  unavoidably  delayed  on 
account  of  the  impossibility  of  securing  the  contributions 
by  the  date  we  usually  go  to  press.  Knowing  that  the 
work  of  this  memorial  can  be  done  but  once,  we  have 
waited. 

We  wish  to  say  that  an  article  from  Mr.  R.  C.  Law- 
rence, in  the  course  of  preparation  now,  will  be  pub- 
lished in  the  next  number.  Mr.  Lawrence  has  been  de- 
layed in  the  completion  of  his  article. 


EXCHANGE  DEPARTMENT 


HILLIARD  J.  MASSEY,  Editor 


Prompted  by  the  suggestion  of  a  friend,  we  wish  to  call  attention  te 
the  dearth  of  stories  dealing  with  phases  of  college  life.  This  is  not 
confined  to  a  few  magazines  alone,  but  we  may  say  to  the  majority. 
While  most  of  the  college  publications  show  a  high  standard  in  the 
material  they  put  out,  still  it  seems  that  the  contributors  might  submit 
stories  of  real  college  life;  stories  which  exhibit  the  spirit  and  trend  of 
the  institutions  which  they  represent,  instead  of  so  many  love  stories 
and  dry  essays.  We  ourselves  plead  guilty  to  this  charge,  and  offer  no 
apology.  But  we  hope  to  see  more  work  permeated  with  college  spirit 
and  enthusiasm. 

The  first  of  the  November  magazines  that  we  notice  is  The  Glemson 
College  Chronicle.  It  opens  with  a  fairly  good  poem,  followed  by  "The 
Cigarette,"  a  first-class  story.  The  plot  is  good  and  well  arranged;  the 
characters  are  portrayed  in  a  life-like  manner,  and  the  writer  make* 
them  talk,  which  adds  considerably  to  a  story.  It  is  a  detective  story — 
a  form  which  is  hard  to  handle.  "The  Development  of  Electrical  Power 
in  the  Piedmont"  is  an  article  showing  the  development  of  future  possi- 
bilities in  this  favored  section  of  North  and  South  Carolina.  "Cupid 
Conquers"  is  a  love  story.  This  is  the  second  and  last  installment  of  the 
story,  the  first  part  having  come  out  in  the  October  issue.  It  is  an 
excellent  piece  of  work.  Enough  of  adventure  and  excitement  are  put  in 
to  make  it  interesting.  The  writer,  by  using  the  well-known  tact  of 
many  story-tellers,  closes  the  first  part  at  a  point  where  the  reader  it 
anxious  to  get  the  rest  of  the  story.  We  think  it  better  to  have  the 
whole  story  in  one  number,  unless  exceedingly  long.  "The  New  South" 
is  an  old  subject  and  one  often  used,  but  'tis  well  "to  harp  on  such  a 
moulder'd  string,"  for  the  South  is  rapidly  coming  to  her  own  again. 
and  we  should  speak  and  write  of  it.  "A  Freak  of  Nature"  seems  in- 
credible until  the  physicist  explains  it.  The  editorial  columns  are  of 
medium  length  and  fairly  well  conducted. 

The  Wesleyan. — This  greets  our  eyes  with  pictures  of  the  editors. 
The  magazine  is  well  proportioned,  but  a  number  of  the  pieces  are  to© 
short.  We  find  some  good  verse  and  two  good  stories.  "The  Princes* 
and  the  Fool"  shows  ability,  but  from  the  beginning  one  suspects  that 
the  Fool  will  turn  out  to  be  the  Prince.  And  so  it  happens.  'Tis  made 
too  evident  at  the  start.  "Why  She  Changed  Her  Mind"  tells  how  a 
brother  converted  his  sister  from  her  "stuck-up"  ways. 


Exchange  Department  309 

The  Concept  comes  as  a  welcome  visitor.  Some  one  has  remarked 
that  girls  are  more  apt  at  writing  verse  than  boys.  After  reading  two 
excellent  poems  in  The  Concept  by  Kate  Drayton  Simons,  we  have  about 
reached  the  same  conclusion.  In  our  opinion,  they  are  the  best  we  have 
yet  seen  in  our  exchanges.  The  music  and  easy  flow  of  language  claims 
the  attention.  Rarely  we  see  such  productions  from  a  student's  pen. 
Some  other  good  verse  is  thrown  in  at  intervals.  "Converse  Com- 
mencement Debate"  is  very  good,  but  we  think  it  not  appropriate  in  a 
magazine.  Yet  in  this  instance  it  adds  something  to  the  publication. 
"A  Thanksgiving  Blessing"  and  'Tn  Case  o'  Sickness"  are  stories  worthy 
of  some  mention.  "The  Wit  of  a  Page"  is  the  best  in  the  magazine. 
As  a  whole,  The  Concept  is  good. 

Randolph- Macon  Monthly  next  claims  our  attention.  "The  Turning 
Point"  is  a  good  story,  but  the  author  seems  to  have  an  indefinite  idea 
as  to  how  it  will  turn  out.  In  fact,  one  fails  to  catch  the  purpose. 
"The  Railroad  Rate  Case  in  North  Carolina"  shows  some  study  of  the 
question.  "The  Iron  Maiden"  is  told  from  the  viewpoint  of  the  first 
person.  It  is  rare  that  a  story  can  be  interestingly  presented  in  this 
form,  and  should  not  often  be  attempted  unless  one  is  a  master  in  the 
craft.  But  in  this  case  the  writer  succeeds  well.  Narrative  ability  is 
displayed.  The  style  is  good,  and  the  hideousness  and  terror  remind 
one  of  Poe's  sanguinary  productions.  "Renunciation"  is  a  pleasing 
poem.  We  have  seen  the  same  theme  treated  under  the  title  of 
"Mother."  But  the  poem  betrays  no  lack  of  originality.  "Letter  from 
a  Self-Made  College  Man  to  His  Son"  is  short,  and  the  writer  takes  the 
right  view  of  the  situation.  The  editorials  are  strong,  clear,  and  cogent. 
The  magazine  is  one  of  the  best. 

The  William  Jeiuell  Student. — We  read  this  with  pleasure  and  pro- 
nounce it  among  the  beston  our  table.  It  seems  that  the  editor  wants 
short  stories,  etc.,  for  the  magazine.  If  we  may  offer  a  suggestion,  our 
criticism  would  be  lack  of  long  articles.  The  quality  of  the  contribu- 
tions is  exceptionally  good,  and  quantity  would  place  it  in  the  front 
ranks.  "De  Superlative  Dinnah,"  written  in  negro  dialect,  makes  one's 
mouth  water  for  "  'possum  and  taters."  More  such  productions  should 
be  encouraged.  "The  'Crescent  City':  Its  Historical  Importance"  gives 
a  short  sketch  of  New  Orleans  which  is  entertaining.  "Things  Are  Not 
Always  What  They  Seem"  is  an  amusing  short  story  and  presents  the 
young  man  in  a  ludicrous  predicament.  "Fifty  Years'  Getherin's"  is  typi- 
cal of  the  "Wild  and  Woolly  West,"  and  has  a  flavor  of  cowboy  life. 
"The  Strong  Men  Believe  in  Cause  and  Effect"  is  better  than  the  usual 
articles  of  its  kind. 

We  acknowledge  receipt  of  the  following  magazines,  a  large  number 
of  which   are   excellent:      The   Mercerian,   The  Eatonian,    The   Uendrix 


310  Tee  Wake  Forest  Student 

College  Mirror,  The  Central  Collegian,  Wofford  College  Journal,  The 
Palmetto,  The  'Newberry  Stylus,  Isaqueena,  Davidson  College  Magazine, 
The  Trinity  Archive,  The  Guilford  Collegian,  State  Normal  Magazine, 
The  Red  and  White,  The  Howard  Collegian,  Southwestern  University 
Magazine,  The  Winthrop  College  Journal,  The  College  Message,  The 
University  of  Virginia  Magazine,  The  Black  and  Gold,  The  Susque- 
hanna, The  Acorn,  Pine  and  Thistle,  Vanderbilt  Observer,  Brenau  Jour- 
nal, The  University  Magazine,  The  Cosmos,  Ouachita  Riffles,  The  Philo- 
mathean  Monthly,  The  Index,  The  St.  Mary's  Muse,  Chimes,  The  X-Ray, 
The  College  of  Charleston  Magazine,  The  Emory  and  Henry  Era,  and 
The  Fur  man  Echo. 


CLIPPINGS 


"A  fluff,  a  frill, 
A  smile,  a  thrill, 
A  ring,  a  look, 
She's  now  a  cook." — Ex. 

1 

Sweetest  thing  in  all  the  world, 
Just  the  dearest  little  girl, 
Is  she? 

Sweetest  thing  in  all  the  land, 
Just  the  dearest  little  man, 
Is  he? 

Sweetest  couple  would  they  make, 
If  the  man  she'll  only  take, 

Will  she?  — E.  K.  A.,  in  Tin 

"   Xon  paratus,'  freshie  dixit, 
Cum  a  sad  and  doleful  look, 
'Onme  rectum,'  Prof,  respondit, 
Nihil,'  seripsit  in  his  book. — Ex. 

■J& 
Don't  let  her  little  brother  see 

You  kiss  your  dear  farewell, 
For  all  philosophers  agree 

"lis  the  little  things  that  tell. — Ex. 

TO  BE  OR  NOT  TO  BE. 

I'd  rather  be  a  Could  Be, 

If  I  can  not  be  an  Are; 
For  a  Could  Be  is  a  May  Be 

With  a  chance  of  touching  far. 

I  had  rather  be  a  Has  Been 

Than  a  Might  Have  Been,  by  far ; 

For  a  Might  Be  is  a  Hasn't  Been, 
But  a  Has  was  once  an  Are. 

Also  an  Are  is  Is  and  Am; 

A  Was  was  all  of  these; 
So  I'd  rather  be  a  Has  Been 

Than  a  Hasn't,  if  you  please.— -J 


WAKE  FOREST  ALUMNI 


CHARLES  S.  BARNETTE,  Editor. 


— Rev.  Caleb  A.  Ridley,  of  Live  Oak,  Fla.,  who  is  a  Western  North 
Carolina  man  and  a  Wake  Forest  man,  has  been  called  to  the  First  Bap- 
tist Church,  Beaumont,  Texas,  to  succeed  Dr.  J.  L.  White,  who  comes  to 
our  First  Church  at  Greensboro.  Mr.  Ridley  is  only  thirty-four  years 
old  and  has  been  greatly  blessed  of  God  in  his  work.  At  Live  Oak.  where 
he  has  been  for  three  years,  he  has  built  an  elegant  house  of  worship, 
added  four  hundred  to  the  membership,  and  otherwise  strengthened  and 
built  up  the  work.  A  great  opportunity  is  opened  to  him  in  Beaumont. 
— Biblical  Recorder. 

— 'S9-'91.  Zeb.  B.  Sanders  is  practicing  law  at  Albemarle,  N.  C,  and 
is  meeting  with  much  success. 

— H.  W.  Brickhouse  is  at  LaFayette,  Colorado,  and  likes  the  place. 

— E.  Delke  Pierce  is  at  Anderson,  S.  C,  in  the  graded  school. 

— 79-'84.  W.  B.  Pope,  of  McMiimville,  Ore.,  Corresponding  Secretary 
of  the  Oregon  Baptist  State  Convention,  has  a  glad  and  thankful  heart. 
Soon  after  he  left  the  State  Secretaryship  in  Colorado  for  a  similar 
work  in  Oregon,  he  was  seriously  injured  in  a  railroad  wreck.  The 
recent  session  of  the  Colorado  Convention  sent  to  him  a  love  token 
which  amounted  to  $200.  He  renews  his  subscription  to  The  Word  and 
Way  and  says:  "The  subscribers  get  a  great  deal  more  than  their 
money's  worth  in  direct  returns."  His  Oregon  brethren  have  delighted 
his  heart.  Dependent  upon  crutch  and  cane  indoors,  and  a  wheel-chair 
outdoors,  he  has  done  his  best.  The  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
organized  work  in  Oregon  the  Convention  closed  the  year  with  a  balance 
instead  of  a  deficit.  The  campaign  was  conducted  from  Pope's  sick  room. 
but  it  was  successful.  His  brethren  honor  him.  He  is  gaining  in 
strength,  but  he  needs  rest  and  special  treatment.  God  is  blessing  him 
and  his  Oregon  brethren. — The  Word  and  Way. 

— '89-'92.  The  Accredited  Press  Gallery  Correspondents  of  Washing- 
ton, D.  C,  at  their  meeting  on  November  30th,  elected  Thos.  J.  Pence 
to  the  Standing  Committee  of  Correspondents  which  shall  serve  during 
the  60th  Congress  as  the  body  to  manage  the  galleries  in  conjunction 
with  Speaker  of  the  House  and  the  Committee  on  Rules  of  the  Senate. 
This  is  the  first  time  a  Southern  man  has  been  so  honored.  Mr.  Pence 
represents  the  Raleigh  News  and  Observer  in  Washington,  and  is  an  able 
newspaper  correspondent. 


Wake  Forest  Alumni  313 

— '50-'55.  Prof.  A.  J.  Emerson,  D.D.,  famous  at  William  Jewell  Col- 
lege, an  alumnus  of  Wake  Forest  College,  and  Mrs.  Bettie  A.  Calhun, 
formerly  of  Liberty,  N.  C,  were  united  in  marriage  in  Denver,  Col., 
November  6,  1907.  We  congratulate  these  two  excellent  people.  Their 
present  address  is  3631  West Avenue,  Denver,  Col. 

— In  the  November  issue  of  Modern  Language  Notes,  Dr.  Joseph 
Quincy  Adams,  of  the  Department  of  English  in  Cornell  University, 
corrects  an  error  repeated  by  one  authority  on  English  from  another. 
The  error  is  the  attribution  of  a  poem,  "What  Thing  is  Love?"  by 
Robert  Greene,  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford. 

— 'S8-'9L  Mr.  John  A.  Oates  announces  in  the  Norlh  Carolina  Baptist 
for  November  27  that  he  has  sold  that  paper  to  the  Biblical  Recorder 
Publishing  Co.  He  has  been  editor  of  The  Baptist  for  fifteen  years,  and 
turns  over  to  The  Recorder  a  constituency  of  7,400  subscribers.  He  is 
Chairman  of  the  Anti-Saloon  League  of  the  State,  and  will  give  much 
of  his  time  to  the  further  promotion  of  the  cause  of  temperance,  which 
already  owes  so  much  to  his  unselfish  labors.  He  will  continue  the 
general  printing  business  of  the  N.  C.  Baptist  Publishing  Co.  in  Fay- 
etteville.  He  was  lately  elected  President  of  the  Fayetteville  Chamber 
of  Commerce. 

— '07.  Mr.  Herbert  L.  Wiggs  of  Atlanta  and  Miss  Torrey  of  Phila- 
delphia were  married  at  the  home  of  the  bride's  father,  Rev.  R.  A.  Torrey, 
on  the  18th  of  December,   1907. 

— 'S6-'S9.  Dr.  John  E.  White,  pastor  of  the  Second  Baptist  Church 
of  Atlanta,  on  the  invitation  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  preached 
three  sermons  there  the  last  of  October.  His  address  on  the  occasion  of 
the  farewell  banquet  in  honor  of  John  Temple  Graves  in  Atlanta  seems 
to  have  been  the  chief  address,  and  was  printed  in  full  in  one  of  the 
Atlanta  papers.  Dr.  White  speaks  of  two  Wake  Foresters  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia:  "Our  two  Wake  Forest  men  are  in  strong  evidence 
by  President  Alderman's  side.  Dr.  R.  H.  Whitehead,  known  around 
Wake  Forest  as  'Dick  Whitehead,'  is  dean  of  the  Medical  Faculty.  Prof. 
Harry  Heck  is  full  Professor  of  the  new  chair  of  Education.  He  not 
only  teaches  his  classes,  but  does  educational  extension  work  by  lectures 
over  the  country.  Of  him  I  heard  the  highest  praise."  He  adds,  "The 
University  authorities  treated  me  with  distinguished  courtesy." 

— Postmaster  Willis  G.  Briggs  of  Raleigh  attended  the  recent  Conven- 
tion of  the  Postmasters  of  Georgia  at  Macon,  and  made  an  address  on 
the  "Relation  of  the  Postmaster  to  the  Community."  Mr.  Briggs  was 
the  moving  spirit  in  the  notable  Raleigh  convention  of  October  last. 

— '83-'87.  Prof.  J.  B.  Carlyle,  of  the  Chair  of  Latin,  was  unani- 
mously elected  President  of  the  Baptist  State  Convention  at  its  meeting 
in  Wilmington  this  month  to  succeed  Mr.  W.  N.  Jones    f75-'79),  the 

6 


314  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

retiring  President.  Prof.  Carlyle  justly  deserves  this  mark  of  recogni- 
tion from  the  Baptists  of  the  State  for  the  noble  service  which  he  has 
rendered  Wake  Forest  College  and  Baptist  education  in  the  State  during 
the  past  twelve  months.  In  that  time,  alone  and  unaided,  he  has  raised 
$112,500  to  be  added  to  the  present  endowment  of  Wake  Forest  College. 
This  was  a  great  undertaking,  and  one  requiring  unceasing  labor  in  its 
accomplishment.  But  Professor  Carlyle  undertook  it  with  his  character- 
istic zeal  and  vigor,  raising  $112,500  in  the  time  specified  by  the  Carnegie 
Education  Board  upon  which  condition  it  will  donate  $37,500  to  the 
endowment,  making  Wake  Forest  College  $150,000  better  off  to-day  than 
it  was  twelve  months  ago. 

— In  the  Cambridge  correspondence  to  The  News  and  Observer,  dated 
November  16,  1907,  we  notice  the  names  of  three  Wake  Forest  men  who 
were  admitted  to  the  Carolina  Club  at  its  last  meeting.  They  are  B.  W. 
Parham  ('00),  P.  C.  McDuffie  ('04),  and  G.  R.  Edwards  ('07).  In 
speaking  of  the  meeting  of  the  club  the  correspondence  goes  on  to  say: 
"A  more  hearty,  enthusiastic  patriotic  gathering  of  sons  loyal  to  their 
mother  State  than  that  which  met  in  No.  304  Carnegie  Hall  on  November 
2d  would  be  hard  to  find.  It  was  the  first  meeting  of  the  year.  Hun- 
dreds of  miles  from  home,  these  young  fellows  met  on  a  common  ground; 
they  were  all  Carolinians.  A  stranger  dropping  among  them  would  not 
have  realized  that  he  was  in  staid  old  New  England,  for  their  minds  and 
hearts  and  tongues  were  all  intent  on  things  "down  home."  Nearly  all 
of  them  graduates  of  Southern  colleges,  they  naturally  turned  to  those 
good  old  days  of  college  life — of  ball  games  between  rival  colleges  and 
especially  of  some  great  Thanksgiving  game  in  which  Carolina  had 
walloped  Virginia.  Another  striking  illustration  of  the  spirit  that  pre- 
vails among  the  Carolinians  at  Harvard  which  is  forcibly  brought  out 
at  their  meetings  is  the  interest  in  the  future  of  the  South,  especially 
the  Carolinas.  These  fellows  are  talking  about  what  they  intend  to  do 
when  they  go  back  home,  for  they  are  all  going  back.  In  a  few  more 
years  there  will  not  only  be  a  Carolina  Club  at  Harvard,  but  there  will 
also  be  a  Harvard  Club  in  Carolina.  The  Carolina  Club  has  never  been 
so  large,  nor  has  such  a  hearty,  fraternal  spirit  prevailed  among  its 
members  as  at  present.  It  may  and  does  justly  claim  to  be  one  of  the 
strongest  State  clubs  at  Harvard." 

— 74-77.  The  following  tribute  to  the  judicial  ability  of  Judge 
Erastus  B.  Jones  is  taken  from  The  Fayetteville  Observer,  and  is  headed 
"Judicial  Philosopher" : 

"Judge  E.  B.  Jones,  who  has  been  holding  the  fall  terms  of  Cumber- 
land Superior  Court,  closed  his  final  term  for  this  county  on  his  present 
round  yesterday,  and  left  on  the  noon  train  for  his  home  in  Winston 
for  a  few  days  rest  before  going  to  Columbus  and  Robeson  counties  to 
hold  his  final  courts  in  the  district. 


Wake  Forest  Alumni  315 

"There  is  no  gainsaying  the  fact  that  Judge  Jones  is  an  original  and 
interesting  character,  and  withal  a  gentleman  of  engaging  and  delightful 
qualities  of  mind  and  heart.  He  is  a  man  of  marked  individuality;  a 
good  natured  man  and  kind-hearted  judge,  who  administers  justice 
tempered  with  mercy. 

"Tall  and  stalwart  of  form,  broad  shouldered,  with  strong,  rugged  and 
clear-cut  features,  a  large  and  massive  head,  crowned  with  a  full  shock 
of  hair  once  black,  but  now  silvered  with  grey,  in  the  meridian  splendor 
of  a  vigorous  and  healthy  manhood,  Judge  Jones,  both  in  person  and 
bearing  suggests  the  rugged  hills  and  mountains  among  which  he  was 
born  and  reared  and  has  lived.  His  manner  and  presence  are  suggestive 
of  the  pure  and  invigorating  breezes  which  fan  the  hilltops  and  moun- 
tains of  his  native  home,  and  there  is  combined  in  his  unique  person- 
ality at  once  the  acumen  of  the  able  lawyer,  the  poise  of  a  sound  jurist, 
the  ripe  wisdom  of  a  true  philosopher,  and  the  ready  wit  of  a  native- 
born   humorist. 

"Without  sacrificing  the  judicial  dignity,  his  Honor  is  always  quick  to 
see  the  humor  that  is  apt  to  characterize  the  most  solemn  judicial  pro- 
ceeding, and  is  himself  sometimes  the  unconscious  author  of  humorous 
incidents  connected  with  the  trial  of  a  case.  There  is  nothing  dull  about 
a  term  of  criminal  court  when  Judge  Jones  presides.  His  charge  to  the 
grand  jury  is  full  without  tedium,  and  delivered  with  a  force  and 
emphasis  that  leaves  nothing  to  doubt.  One  admirer  who  heard  his 
charge  for  the  first  time  pronounced  it  "a  fine  judicial  sermon,''  and 
later  assured  his  Honor  of  his  firm  conviction  that  any  judge  who  could 
talk  to  a  grand  jury  like  that  stood  a  good  chance  of  heaven  when  he 
died. 

"Speaking  of  his  Honor's  wit:  In  the  trial  of  a  white  man  charged 
with  whipping  his  wife,  at  a  recent  term  of  court  in  another  county,  the 
man  came  into  court  with  his  wife,  an  attractive  and  modest-looking 
little  woman,  and  informed  the  Court  that  he  and  his  wife  had  "made  it 
up"  and  that  he  wished  to  "draw"  the  case,  as  they  call  a  nolle  prosequi 
in  this  particular  county.  Now,  if  the  gallant  Judge  may  be  said  to 
have  a  pet  aversion,  it  is  the  man  who  maltreats  the  gentler  sex,  especi- 
ally the  wife-beater.  Rightly  suspecting  the  whipping  was  not  the  mild 
affair  represented  by  the  defendant,  a  big  strapping  fellow,  the  wife, 
with  evident  reluctance,  was  required  to  go  on  the  stand  and  testify  to 
a  most  cruel  and  brutal  whipping  at  the  hands  of  the  husband.  Where- 
upon his  Honor  remarked  to  the  defendant,  'My  friend,  you  have 
"drawed"  just  twelve  months  on  the  public  roads.' 

"In  the  rush  of  business  at  this  week's  court  in  Fayetteville,  two 
regular  juries  were  constantly  in  requisition  to  dispatch  the  business  of 
the  court.  At  one  time  both  juries  were  out,  one  on  a  hog-stealing  case 
and  the  other  on  a  fighting  and  shooting  scrape  at  Hope  Mills,  which 
proved  to  be  quite  a  bloody  affair.     Another  case  was  called,  and  no  jury 


316  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

in  the  box.  The  Sheriff  enquired  of  his  Honor  if  he  should  call  another 
jury.  'Where  is  the  other  jury?'  asked  the  Court,  with  rising  irrita- 
tion, forgetting  for  the  moment  that  both  juries  were  busy  with  cases. 
'Considering  the  Hope  Mills  case,  your  Honor,'  responded  the  Sheriff. 
'0/  called  back  the  Judge,  with  returning  good  humor,  'I  had  forgotten 
the  battle  of  Hope  Mills.' 

"It  is  such  flashes  of  wit  and  choice  bits  of  humor  as  these  that  con- 
stantly brighten  and  cheer  the  pathway  of  those  who  have  to  do  with 
courts  of  justice  presided  over  by  Judge  Erastus  B.  Jones.  And  who 
shall  say  that  even  the  guiltiest  convict  does  not  go  to  his  punishment 
with  a  lighter  heart  and  perchance  a  fixed  purpose  of  future  amend- 
ment, in  the  soothing  reflection  that  the  sentence  of  the  law  was  im- 
posed upon  him  by  a  just  Judge  whose  heart  was  too  full  of  sunshine 
and  good  nature  to  hold  aught  in  malice  against  any  man,  most  of  all  a 
poor  unfortunate  who  is  'down  and  out.'  " 


IN  AND  ABOUT  COLLEGE 


H.  E.  PEELE,   Editor 


— December ! 

—Snow ! ! 

— Examinations ! ! ! 

— Here's  to  the  holidays ! 

— Mr.  Edward  Conn  is  now  associate  editor  of  The 
Neivs  and  Observer. 

— Mr.  J.  B.  Farmer,  of  The  Biblical  Recorder,  con- 
ducted chapel  exercises  on  November  27th. 

— Miss  Minnie  Gwaltney,  the  head  nurse  in  our  Col- 
lege Hospital,  was  called  home  during  the  early  part  of 
the  month  by  the  death  of  her  father,  Rev.  W.  R.  Gwalt- 
ney. 

— Mr.  Livingston  Johnson,  Secretary  of  the  State  Mis- 
sion Board,  paid  us  his  annual  visit  on  the  first  Sunday 
in  December. 

— The  following  Y.  M.  C.  A.  officers  have  been  elected 
for  the  ensuing  year:  C.  J.  Jackson,  President;  N.  A. 
Melton,  Vice-President;  R.  L.  McMillan,  Recording  Sec- 
retary; J.  D.  Carroll,  Corresponding  Secretary;  J.  M. 
Adams,  Treasurer. 

— Rev.  R.  P.  Walker,  of  Lenoir,  an  alumnus  of  this 
college,  visited  his  home  here  recently  and  was  greeting 
his  old  friends  among  the  boys.  He  led  the  prayer  ser- 
vices in  chapel  on  Friday  morning,  December  13th. 

— The  second  of  the  series  of  college  lectures  was  de- 
livered by  Dr.  Raper,  of  the  University  of  North  Caro- 
lina, in  the  early  part  of  December.     His  subject  was 


318  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

The  Schoolmaster's  Doctrine  of  Economics,  and  his  lec- 
ture, both  interesting  and  instructive. 

— The  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollar  increase 
in  the  endowment  of  Wake  Forest  College  is  a  fact,  the 
raising  of  it  is  history,  and  Prof.  J.  B.  Carlyle,  who  was 
unanimously  elected  President  of  the  Baptist  State  Con- 
vention at  Wilmington,  and  who  has  been  styled,  in  the 
happy  phrase  of  The  Biblical  Recorder,  the  Prince  of 
endowment  agents,  is  the  man  of  the  hour.  Thunderous 
applause  greeted  his  first  appearance  in  chapel  after  his 
return  from  the  Convention,  and  for  many  days  he  was 
kept  busy  answering  the  questions  of  eager  enquirers 
who  wanted  to  know  how  the  thing  was  done.  Often 
disappointed  but  never  discouraged,  Profcessor  Carlyle 
gave  himself  heart  and  soul  to  this  endowment  move- 
ment, and,  as  usual,  he  has  brought  things  to  pass.  Now 
that  victory  has  crowned  his  efforts  all  the  difficulties 
encountered  and  the  obstacles  overcome  but  add  to  the 
weight  of  the  glory  of  his  triumph.  Let  those  who  love 
Wake  Forest  and  rejoice  in  the  promise  that  the  future 
holds  for  the  old  college  never,  in  days  to  come,  forget  to 
give  honor  to  him  to  whom  highest  honor  is  due. 

— Nowhere  was  the  news  of  success  in  raising  the  en- 
dowment fund  received  with  greater  and  more  genuine 
enthusiasm  than  among  the  students  of  the  college  itself. 
Eagerly  and  impatiently  the  boys  waited  to  hear  from 
the  Convention,  and  when  at  last  the  telegram  an- 
nouncing victory  was  read  before  the  student  body  in 
Memorial  Hall,  cheer  after  cheer  rang  through  the  build- 
ing. It  was  cheering  that  meant  something,  too, — cheer- 
ing which  sprang  from  the  same  enthusiasm  and  love  for 
the  college  that  had  already  expressed  itself  in  dollars. 

— The  most  delightful  entertainment  afforded  us  in 
manv  months  was  that  presented  by  Mr.  Albert  Arm- 


In  and  About  College  319 

strong,  who  appeared,  on  November  26th,  before  an  ap- 
preciative audience  in  Memorial  Hall  in  his  illustrated 
lecture,  or  rather,  picture-play,  Lorna  Boone.     As  each 
picture  was  thrown  upon  the  screen  the  lecturer,  stand- 
ing in  the  shadow,  so  effectively  impersonated  the  char- 
acters represented  that  one  continually  found  himself 
forgetting  that  it  was  the  lecturer  and  not  the  pictured 
characters  who  spoke.     Should  Mr.  Armstrong  visit  us 
again  we  think  that  he  would  be  given  a  larger  audience. 
— On  the  evening  of  the  7th  Mrs.  Sledd  delightfully 
entertained  a  number  of  friends  in  her  home.     Several 
musical  selections  were  rendered,  Mr.   Hubert  Poteat, 
Miss  Ruby  Reid,  Miss  Bessie  Dunn  and  Mrs.  Sledd  each 
contributing   one   or  more   selections   to   the  program. 
After  the  music  delicious  refreshments  were  served  and 
then  followed  games  without  number  and  fun  without 
measure.     Indeed  the  entire  evening  was  one  of  unal- 
loyed pleasure  to  all  who  were  present.     The  guests  were 
Misses  Hallie  Powers,  Lulie  Dickson,  Ruby  Reid,  Bessie 
Dunn,  Lula  Dunn,  Ada  Lee  Timberlake,  Mattie  Gill, 
Mrs.  J.  L.  Allen,  Mrs.  J.  R.  Crozier,  Mrs.  John  Brewer; 
and  Messrs.  Hubert  Poteat,  W.  H.  Vann,  George  Mar- 
shall, John  Brewer,  Will  Furman,  Leslie  Hardy,  C.  M. 
Oliver,  Lee  Weathers,  Lee  White. 

— The  class  contests  in  football  are  over  and  the 
laurels  rest  with  the  team  of  the  junior  class.  It  is  safe 
to  say,  however,  that  there  has  been  played  on  our  ath- 
letic field  no  such  exciting  series  of  games  for  a  class 
championship  in  several  years.  The  final  struggle  was 
between  the  juniors  and  the  sophomores,  and  these  two 
teams  met  one  another  when  each  had  a  brilliant  victory 
to  its  credit.  In  the  first  game  between  these  teams 
there  was  no  score.  At  one  time,  indeed,  the  juniors 
were  within  a  bare  inch  of  a  touch-down,  but  just  at  the 


320  The  Wake  Forest  Student 

critical  moment  the  sophomore  line  grew  as  rigid  as  rock 
and  would  not  be  moved.  The  second  game  looked,  in 
the  beginning,  as  though  it  would  be  a  repetition  of  the 
first;  but  somehow,  before  the  first  half  was  over, 
"Buck"  McMillan  got  around  the  sophomores'  end,  and 
close  by  his  side  Avas  Leggett.  The  goal  was  hardly  less 
than  forty  yards  distant,  however,  and  no  one  dreamed 
of  a  touch-down  yet.  There  were  two  or  three  sopho- 
mores in  the  way.  But  none  of  these  sophomores  ever 
got  hold  of  Buck  for  a  fair  tackle.  Leggett's  splendid 
interference  put  every  one  of  them  out  of  the  way,  and 
the  juniors  scored.  The  sophs  fought  hard  in  the  second 
half,  but  their  confidence  was  gone.  Again  and  again 
Collins  was  hurled  against  their  line  for  a  gain,  and  at 
the  end  the  score  stood  18  to  0  in  favor  of  the  juniors. 

— On  November  27th,  at  the  old  Purefoy  Hotel,  the 
junior  team  celebrated  their  football  victory  with  a  ban- 
quet, to  which  several  young  ladies  of  the  Hill  were  in- 
vited. The  company  were  received  by  Mrs.  Crozier  and 
Mrs.  Sledd,  and  the  evening  was  spent  in  feasting  and 
merry-making.  Toasts  were  proposed,  responses  were 
made,  and  speeches  were  called  for.  Indeed,  overflow- 
ing good  humor  and  sparkling  wit  characterized  the  en- 
tire occasion.  A  few  weeks  later  the  sophomore  team 
was  given  a  smoker  by  Mr.  Will  Duffy,  the  President  of 
their  class,  and  here,  too,  we  are  informed,  the  fun  was 
fast  and  furious. 

— So  far  as  basket-ball  is  concerned,  Wake  Forest  is 
certainly  far  and  away  beyond  anything  in  the  State. 
Having  seen  our  boys  pile  up  63  to  0  on  Littleton  and 
watched  them  do  Trinity  Park  to  the  tune  of  57  to  8,  we 
were  anxious  for  them  to  get  hold  of  a  real  team.  So  we 
sent  them  to  Trinity,  and  in  due  season  came  the  mes- 
sage bearing  the  news  of  Trinity's  downfall.     She  was 


In  and  About  College  321 

beaten  by  a  score  of  20  to  11.  Then  came  Guilford's 
turn,  and  once  more  the  welcome  news  of  victory  came  to 
us,  the  score,  this  time,  being  18  to  15.  Then,  at  last,  to 
our  delight,  Trinity  paid  us  a  visit.  It  was  a  glorious 
game.  Trinity  had  the  evident  advantage  in  weight  and 
height,  but  Wake  Forest  outplayed  her.  That's  all  there 
is  to  it.  Once  more  the  score  stood  20  to  11  in  Wake 
Forest's  favor.  Guilford,  however,  gave  us  the  snap- 
piest, fastest  game  that  has  ever  been  played  on  the 
floor  of  the  Wake  Forest  Gymnasium,  when  she  came  to 
try  her  fortune  here.  But  despite  fast  and  spectacular 
playing,  Guilford  suffered  the  common  fate,  and  left  us 
with  another  victory  to  add  to  our  list — 29  to  10  was  the 
score.  Thus  during  the  fall  Wake  Forest  has  played 
six  games  and  won  them  all !  " Here's  to  Wake  Forest !" 
May  she  find  other  worlds  to  conquer  in  the  coming  year. 

— Following  the  game  with  Trinity  the  visiting  team 
were  invited  to  a  smoker,  which  was  given  in  their  honor 
by  Mr.  J.  W.  Bailey.  Our  own  team  and  a  few  outside 
fellows  were  present  to  help  in  making  the  occasion 
pleasant  for  the  visitors,  and  pleasant  indeed,  we  trust, 
did  it  prove.  When  refreshments  had  been  served  and 
when  all  were  seated  and  comfortably  smoking,  Mr. 
Bailey,  the  host,  took  full  charge  of  the  proceedings. 
After  a  few  kindly  words  of  greeting  and  welcome  to  his 
Trinity  friends  and  guests,  he  called  on  Dr.  Poteat  for  a 
patriotic, — a  call  to  which  Dr.  Poteat  responded  with 
his  usual  dignity  and  felicity  of  expression.  There  then 
followed  speeches  from  the  coach  and  from  the  captain 
of  the  visiting  team,  and  to  these  Captain  Couch,  of  our 
team,  responded.  With  toasts  and  speeches  the  evening 
passed  all  too  quickly,  and  our  boys  bade  their  Trinity 
friends  good-bye  with  sincere  regret. 


Advertisements. 


(INCORPORATED) 

CAPITAL  STOCK  -830,000 

RALEIGH,  N.  C.  CHARLOTTE,  N.  C. 

Pullen  Building:,  Piedmont  Building:, 

Fayetteville  Street  S.  Tryon  Street 

A  Personal  Investigation  will  convince  any  one  that  KING'S  is  abso- 
lutely the  largest,  best  equipped  and  most  successful  college  of 

Business,  Shorthand,  Typewriting,  Penmanship  and 

Telegraphy 

In  the  Carolinas.  TELEGRAPHY  taught  at  our  RALEIGH  School.  The 
railroads  need,  during  the  next  ten  months,  6.000  to  12.000  more  operators. 
Now  is  the  time  to  study  Telegraphy.  Send  for  circulars.  Strong  financial 
backing.  Reference:  Every  bank  and  leading  business  concern  in  Raleigh 
or  Charlotte.  Handsome  Catalogue  and  special  offers  free.  We  also  teach 
Bookkeeping,  Shorthand  ana  Penmanship  by  Mail.  Send  for  Home  Study 
Circular.    Address 

KING'S  BUSINESS  COLLEGE 

RALEIGH,  N.  C.  or  CHARLOTTE,  N.  C, 


THE 

RALEIGH  &  SOUTHPORT 
RAILWAY. 

From  Raleigh,  N.    C,   to  Fayetteville,  N.  C. 

Opening  a  new  territory    for  Capital  and    Labor  in  a  magnificent 
farming  region,  making  a  land  of  opportunity. 


Bocyanon  C  Y.  HOLDEN  &  CO. 

Headquarters  for  Your  Wants 

STATIONERY,     HATS, 

SHOES,     SHIRTS, 
COLLARS,     TIES 

AND  A  GENERAL   LINE. 


Advertisements. 


The  University  College  of  Medicine, 

RICHMOND,  VIRGINIA, 


is  one  of  oSf3  nve  mescal  cc'ls>;e>i^-ll  the  Soerli^n  St 
in  C«j/p  §&  C/«i?$*  by  iH^pepartment  of  I 


Registered 
l-,jew  York. 


The  M  physic^  hn  cbt>'n  the  pifvih- y  of  ^;i;;|nination 

for  licence  York  is  fo?  Bi  college  to  TO:  registerfcHn  Croup 

One,  Class  One.    Other  States  have  similar  regulations. 

Full  regular  courses  in  Medicine,  Dentistry  and  Pharmacy. 

STUART  MeGUIRE,  M.  H..  President.  WILLIAM  R.  MILLER,  Proctor, 

Send  for  illustrated  descriptive  Bulletins. 


A  TRIAL  WILL  PROVE  WHY 

THE     MODEL    BARBER    SHOP 

has  so  manv  satisfied  customers.     Good  clean  service. 

The  only  first-class    Barber   Shop   in    V\  ake    Forest. 

Next  door  to  Dickson  Bros.  GEORGE  TAYLOR,  Proprietor. 


Published  annually  bv  the  Euzelian  and  Philomathesian  Literary  Societies  ot 

Wake  Forest  College. 
A  complete  Picture  of  College  Life  at  Wake  Forest,  containing 
Historv  and  Cut  of  all  Organizations,  and  id  general  all  points 
of  interest  connected  with  the  College.    Those  wanting  copies 
will  do  well  to  send  their  order  at  once. 

Price  $1  50  per  Copy 

To  be  issued  May  1st.    For  information  and  advertising  rates,  address 

N.  A.  MELTON,  Business  Manager 


Advertisements. 


HIGH  CLASS  TAILORING 

AT  POPULAR  PRICES 

Stetson  Hats,  Crawford  Shoes,  New  Stock,  Latest  Styles 


Jos.  G.   Brown,  A.  B.  Andrews,  Henry  E.  Litchford, 

President.  Vice-President.  Cashier 

The   Citizens   National   Bank 

RflLtEIGH,  N-  C 

Capital,            -          -           ....  $     100,000 

Surplus  and  Profits, 100.000 

Deposits, 1,000,000 

Resources, 1,500,000 

DIRECTORS: 

A.  B.  Andrews,  A.  B.  Hawkins,  R.  H.  Lewis, 

Jos   (t.  Brown,  Ivan  M.  Proctor,  Jno.  O.  Drewry 

R.  H.  Battle,  Wm.J.  Andrews,  S.  C.  Vann. 

YOU  CAN  TRUST 

THE  MUTUAL  BENEFIT  LIFE 

As  you  would  an  old  friend.  It  has  served  three  generations  of  men. 
A  long  series  of  letters,  which  is  yours  for  the  asking,  attests  the  satis- 
faction of  Grandfathers,  Fathers  and  Sons  with  the  treatment  accorded 
them  by  the  Company. 

THE  VERDTCT  OF  REFLECTION  IS 
ALWAYS  IN  FAVOR  OF  „|T~ 

THE  MUTUAL  BENEFIT  LIFE. 

JOHN  C.  DREWRY,  State  Agent,  Raleigh,  N.C. 


QlKBa 


For  Drugs,  Medicines,  Toilet  Articles,  Fountain  Pens 

Stationery  and  School  Supplies,  Cigars,  Candies, 

Fruits  and  Soda  Fountain  Drinks, 

ggjg  T.  E.  Holding  &  Co/s  Drug  Store 

First  Virginia*.  Regimei\t  Band  and 

Orchestra. 

J.  T.  PULLEN,  Manager,  Music  Furnished  for  AU 

512  E.  Broad  St.,  Richmond,  Va.  Occasions 


Advertisements. 


Raleigh    Marble  Works 


COOPER  BROS  ,  Proprietors 
RALEIGH,    NORIH    CAROLINA 

Ne<w  Catalogue  on  Request  We  Pay  the  Freight 

BOYS    REMEMBER  BOYS 


For  Stationery,  Lamps,  Oil,  Fruit,  Candies,  and  the  Best  Cold 
Drinks.     Also  Groceries  and  Oysters. 


GO    TO 


j-i.-_&J»:-i-  . 


¥/££„    SUPPLY   COMPANY 


FOR 


Heavy  and  Fancy  Groceries,  Fresh  Meats 
and  Country  Produce. 

HIGH-CLASS  PHOTOGRAPHY 


"^v^ceJ 


We  have  had  special  training  in  school  work,  and 
are  prepared  to  give  you  the  best  results 

WHARTON  &  TYREE,   RALEIGH,  N.  C. 


Advertisements. 

DICKSON   BROTHERS 

WAKE  FOREST.  N.  C. 

Headquarters  for 

Gents'  Furnishings 

We  carry  the  largest  line  of  Shoes  in  town,  with  the  latest  style  toes 

and  the  best  10c.  Collar  on  the  market.     Lowest  prices 

possrbh .     Call  to  see  us. 


H.   STEINMETZ 


CUT  FLOWERS  A  SPECIALTY 

Roses,  Carnations.  Bouquets.  Designs,  Plants  of  all  kinds 

Bulbs,  etc.  Phone  113. 

RALEIGH,  NORTH  CAROLINA 

P.  Q,  BRYAN,  Agrent  in  College. 


H.  MAHLER'S  SONS 

Manufacturing- 

Jewelers  and  Silversmiths 

RALEIGH,  N.  C. 

Watches,  Jewelry,  Diamonds,  Silverware.  Etc. 

Catalogue  of  Badges  and  Seals  now  ready,  and 
sent  on  application. 

Crozer  Theological  Seminary 

HENRY  G.  WESTON,  D.D,    L..L..D.,  President 

Courses  of  study  designed  for  col  egr  graduates  a»d  others 
of  like  jittai'  merits.  Free  access  to  Philadelphia's  libraries 
and  archaeological  museums.  Elecfives  in  the  University 
of  Pennsylvania.  Degree  of  B  l>.  to  qualified  n  en  at 
graduation.  Expenses  light  Scholarships  to  students 
holding  the  degree  of  A  B  For  Catalogs  and  informa- 
tion, address 

MILTON  G.  EVANS.  Dean.  *— . Chester.  Pa. 


Advertisements. 

Pure  f of  s  Tumi  tun  and  Coffin  Tyoust 

We  keep  constantly  on  hand  a  full  stock  of 

Furniture.  Chairs,  Pictures,  Coffins  and  Caskets.     Picture  Frames  made 
to  order.    Also  Upholsteringr  done  at  Short  Notice. 

Clothing  Wade  to  Measure.    Call  and  see  Samples 

E.  ALLEN.  Manager 

COOK  STOVES  AND  HEATERS,  BLANKETS  AND  QUILTS 


THE    LEADING    STOKE    FOR 

(Bents'  jfurnisbiitfld 


IS 


Z.  V.    PEED    &    C  O.'S 

They  carry  best  line  Shoes.  Hats.  Shirts,  Cuffs, 

Collars,  Ties,  Underwear,  Hosiery,  etc. 

PRICES  ALWA1  S  RIGHT.  CALL  AND  SEE  THEM 


GO  TO 

Powers    Drug   Company 

For  Books,  Stationery,  Candies,  Cigars, 
Cigarettes,  etc. 

Agency  for  Spalding's  Athletic  Goods.  Waterman  Fountain  Pen 


CUT     FLOWERS 

Fresh,  Fragrant  and  beautiful.    All  varieties  in  season. 
Telephone  orders  given  prompt  attention. 


J.    L.    O'QUINN    &    CO.,  BAI.Hcffi?N??AUOUXA 


THE  SOUTHERN  EDUCATIONAL  BUREAU. 

Raleigh,  N.  C. 
The  leading  teachers  agency  in  the  South.    Members  located  in  twenty 
eight  States;  salaries  from  $3,000  per  year  down. 
Correspondence  invited.  Established  in  1891. 


Advertisements. 

The 


Union  Central  Life  Insurance  Go. 

Has  already  succeeded,  is  most  economically  managed, 
selects  only  choice  risks;  hence  had  the  lowest  death-rate 
for  last  40  years.  Gets  largest  profits  from  its  investments, 
pajTs  the  biggest  annual  cash  dividends;  thus  it  gives  In- 
surance at  least  possible  cost.  Best  policy  for  buyer  or 
seller.     Good  agents  can  get  choice  territory. 

CAREY  J    HUNTER  (Si  BRO.,  Stsvte  Agents.  Raleigh.  N.  C. 

CO  W.  H.  Weatherspoon  f  A„pnfq 

T055  &  c-N-DraN       { 

Linehan  Company 


New  Tucker 
Building 


234  and  236  FayetteviUe  Street 

Clothiers,  Wen's  Turn  is  hers  and  Outfitters 

We  extend  to  you  a  cordial  invitation  to  call  and  see  us  during  your  visit  to  our 
city.    We  will  endeavor  to  make  your  stay  pleasant.    Respectfully, 

Cross  &  Linehan  Co.         Raleigh.  N.C. 


SEABOARD 

AIR  LINE  RAILWAY 


PASSENGER   DEPARTMENT 

Direct  Line  to  Ail  Poin  s  in  the  South,  South 
west,  North  and  Northwest 


DOUBLE  DAILY  SERVICE  BETWEEN 

Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Washington,  Norfolk 
Richmond,  Raleigh,  Charlotte,  Wilmington,  Atlanta,  Birming- 
ham,   Memphis,    Chattanooga,    Nashville,    Montgomery, 
Mobile,  New  Orleans,  Columbia,  Savannah,  Jackson- 
ville ,  Tampa    and    ALL    FLORIDA   POINTS. 

2  TRAINS  EVERY  DAY  BETWEEN 2  TRAINS  EVERY  DAY 

New  York,  Washington,  Norfolk-Portsmouth  and 

Atlanta,  Birmingham,  Memphis, 

Savannah  and  Jacksonville. 

TRAINS  COMPOSED   OF 

Vestibule  Day  Coaches,  Pullman  Drawing  Room  Sleeping  Cars  and 
the  latest  Cafe  Dining  Cars. 

DIRECT  CONNECTIONS  AT 

Memphis  and  New  Orleans  for  ALL   POINTS  in  Texas,  California, 

Arkansas,  Colorado  and  ALL  WESTERN  POINTS. 

Interchangeable  Mileage  Books  grood  over 

15,000  miles  of  road  on  Southern  Line 


For  Time-Tables,  Winter  or  Summer  Booklets,  Illustrative  of  tneSoutb  and  South 
west,  apply  to  Seaboard  Passenger  Representatives,  or  address 

CHAS.  H.  GATTIS,  T.  P.  A.,  C.  B.  RYAN,  G.  P.  A., 

RALEIGH,  N.  C.  PORTSMOUTH,  VA. 

L.  SEVIER,  Vice-President 

NORFOLK,   VA. 


Wake  Forest  College. 


truction  is 
I. 


II. 

III. 


IV. 

V. 

VI. 
VII. 


VIII.  Chemistry, 


IX. 


XIII, 

XIV, 

XV. 


given  in  the  following  "Schools,"  each  of  which  is  distinct  from  the  oth 
Latin  Language  and  Literature. 
Prof.   J.   B.  Carlyle,  Associate  Prop.  G.  W.  Paschal  and  Instru( 

H.  McN.  Poteat. 
Greek  Language  and  Literature. 

Prof.  W.  B.  Royall  and  Associate  Prof.  G.  W.  Paschal. 
English  Language  and  Literature. 

Prof.  B.  F.  Sledd  and  Instructor  H.  F.  Page. 

!1.  French  Language  and  Literature. 
2.  German  Language  and  Literature. 
3.  Spanish  Language. 

Prof.  J.  H.  Gorrell. 

{1.  Algebra  and  Geometry. 
2.  Trigonometry  and  Analytic  Geometry. 
3.  Differential  and  Integral  Calculus. 

Prof.  L.  R.  Mills  and  Prof.  J.  F.  Lanneau. 

Physics, 

Prof.  J.  L.  Lake. 

APPLIED  MATHKMATICS  j  I   Xt^-1  N^a"0a- 

Prof.  J.  F.  Lanneau. 
fl.  General  Chemistry. 

2.  Analytical  Chemistry. 

3.  Organic  Chemistry. 

4.  Applied  Chemistry. 

Prof.  C.  E.  Brewer  and  Instructor  J.  W.  Nowell. 

fl.  General  Biology. 
|  2.  Botany. 
Biology,         .        .-5  3.  Zoology. 

4.  Human  Physiology. 

5.  Mineralogy  and  Geology. 

Prof.  W.  L.  Poteat  and  Instructor  J.  D.  Ives. 

1.  Psychology. 

2.  Ethics. 

3.  Logic. 

4.  History  of  Philosophy. 

Prof.  C.  E.  Taylor. 

1.  Political  Economy. 

2.  Constitutional  Government. 

3.  History. 

Prof.  E.  W.  Sikes. 

Prof.  N.  Y.  Gulley. 

E.  W.  Timberlake,  Jr.,  Associate  Professor  of  Law, 

Prof.  W.  R.  Cullom. 

Prof.  J.  H.  Highsmith. 

Dr.  W.  S.  Rankin. 

Dr.  L.  M.  Gaines. 

Director  J.  R.  Crozier. 


X.  Moral  Philosophy, 


XI.  Political  Science, 


XII.  Law. 


Bible. 

Education. 

Medicine. 


Athletics. 


Several  "Courses,"  each  of  which  embraces  Required  and  Elective  Studies,  are  open  to 
lates  for  the  degrees  of  Master  of  Arts,  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  Bachelor  of  Science, 
^ree  of  Bachelor  of  Law  is  conferred  on  students  who  complete  a  three  years'  cour 
w  and  certain  courses  of  Schools  XI. 

The  Library,  which  now  contains  over  18,000  volumes;  the  Reading  Room,  w 
;eives  the  best  current  Literature ;  the  Lea  Laboratory,  with  its  facilities  for  woi 
emistry;  the  Biological  Laboratory  for  Biology  and  Medicine;  the  well-sustained  Litei 
cieties,  and  the  new  Gymnasium,  and  the  new  College  Hospital  with  modern  apr. 
mts,  afford  exceptional  advantages  to  students. 


Fall  Term  Begins  September  3d. 


Spring  Term,  January  1st,  1908. 


runrnrpp    nrn    -rrnti    ntr    r-i\/r    uniiTUC 


